


The Chronicles of Draco Malfoy

by zarahjoyce



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco is a humble and good person, F/M, Gen, really really humble
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2018-12-10 03:25:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11683032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarahjoyce/pseuds/zarahjoyce
Summary: Draco Malfoy. Passionate Writer. Bestselling Author. Who would've thought? Certainly not the people around him! AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> reviving this because I really want to continue it

_This is a story of redemption. This is a story of a miracle boy; a young man who, in spite of difficult, impossible odds, manages to survive in a harsh, bitter world; surrounded by his friends, his followers, and all the people who—_

And then my muse comes in, rereads what I've written, and critically says,  _this sounds so much like a Harry Potter story._

But this  _isn't_  the story of one sodding Harry Potter, you idiot. Can't you read? It's written there on top, 'The Chronicles of  _Draco Malfoy_ ' and as such this story is and will forever be about yours truly. I will be telling my life story in this – the start of a seven-book series - and I guarantee that it will be on top of Flourish and Blott's bestseller list once I get it printed and out in the market.

"This will be phenomenal," I mutter to myself.

Because there's nothing in this damned world I can't do that won't be phenomenal. I'm gifted that way.

A sound very much like a pop resounds in the room. "You talking to yourself again?" a bespectacled, green-eyed monster aptly named Harry Potter asks rather stupidly from his place near the doorway.

I look at him, and not for the first time I wonder why is it that nature made such a cruel mistake in bringing  _him_ to life.

But, you know, I have no issues whatsoever with this bespectacled freak with poor eyesight. I  _have_  grown into a beautiful, forgiving man. I know now how to live and let live.

Potter stares at me expectantly, like he's waiting for an answer. Then he looks down at my parchment and quill and raises his brow. Surreptitiously, I slide my tools away from his maltreated eyes. The world isn't ready for my talent yet, you see. "Nothing," I say.

Then he frowns, like my answer isn't intelligent enough for the likes of him. HA! You wish, Potter!

And then I reconsider his question, and my answer…

Moving on.

"What brings you here, Potter?" I ask him snidely, because there's no way in hell I will  _not_  be intentionally slipping bits of my inherently evil personality in my manner of speaking, especially when I'm talking to lower-than-myself-and-everything-else-Gryffindors.

"I'm helping you move out, remember?"

Oh. Right.

I can almost hear the lot of you moan and groan and tell yourselves, oh, how high has the mighty fallen, or something stupid like that. Or something else, like, how is it that the magnificent, magnanimous Draco Malfoy get to be so low as to do something like receive help from  _Harry_ sodding  _Potter?_

Well. Desperate times calls for desperate measures. Plus, with all our house elves liberated –  _damn you Hermione Granger!_ \- I have to accept all the help I can get.

Even if they  _are_  from one Harry sodding Potter.

I evilly point at my bags and say, "Just get those out and into my new manor. Do remember that I expect to have the entire east wing for myself only. I don't intend to share a spectacular view of sunrise with anyone, and—"

Potter shakes his head. "You're not moving into a new manor, you idiot. It's a flat. A one-bathroom, single-bedroom flat."

A… what?

WHAT?

"But—"

"We already talked about this, remember?" he says in a pathetic attempt to be helpful. "I already told you all there is you need to know about my place."

And then I do remember bits of the useless conversation he alludes to, because I think my brain subconsciously tried to hide that in my memory, because it knows that the fact of my moving in with Harry Potter will traumatize me immensely.

Fortunately, there will be two doors separating us. I think. I mean, I think I remember him saying we'll be living in two separate rooms across from each other.

Are we?

ARE WE?

Alarm bells resound in my head. What if…

What if…!

"Remind me the details of my moving in with you," I tell him loftily, hoping that my voice doesn't betray my inner turmoil.

He sighs. He does that a lot, you know. "You'll be taking Ron's old room, the one across from mine, and—"

OH THANK GOD.

Imagine; if we are to share the same room… oh, the images are just too sickening. If we are, though, then that means I will have to tolerate his bedraggled, bespectacled appearance every minute of every day of my waking life! The horror! Seeing his ugly scar every day, imagine the mental scars it will give  _me!_

I will much rather kiss a Dementor.

Or… not, actually.

Anyway.

"—it's on the west part of—"

That catches my attention again. "West?" I ask.

He sighs. Again. See? He  _always_ does that! "Yes."

I lift my chin. "Then that means yours is – technically – on the east."

He thinks about it, and says, "Yeah."

Indignation burns through me. That is  _so_ unfair. Just when I want something, I find out that Harry sodding Potter has already gone and laid claim to what  _I_ want.

Look. Another damned reason to hate the bastard!

But I'm not bitter, you arse. I already told you that I'm above and beyond the petty issues of my childhood, thank you very much.

"Do you still plan to move in?"

I'm very tempted to say no. After all, I'm still in my manor, and according to the deed in my pocket I have until the end of the month to stay here. That's two weeks away. Perhaps I can find a more suitable location for me, a place where my right to have the sunrise to myself can be respected and followed. I still have fourteen days to stay here and pretend that everything's the way they always were, that Mother's only in her dressing room grooming herself while Father's in the library reading the latest reports about Voldemort.

But the money's already with me, and there's no sense in staying in a place that's no longer mine. There's no sense in pretending anymore.

"Yes," I say. Quietly.

In an evil sort of way, of course.

He nods. "Right. I'll get these bags to your new place." And off he goes.

And in a few minutes, I follow.

* * *

 

The first thing I notice the moment I arrived is that the room is very, very dark.

"Potter!" I bellow. Don't tell me – Weasley forgot to pay his bills before he left, and now I'm to suffer the consequences? Of all the rotten, ill-willed, nasty- "Where the bloody hell are you? You sick,  _sick_ —"

And then the light flickers on and seemingly a million voices scream at me, "SURPRISE!"

Um, no, I didn't scream. Honest.

I look around me, at the grinning faces of Potter and Weasley and Pansy, and I want to throttle them, one by one, until they're on the very last breath of their life.

"Bet you didn't expect that, did you?" Weasley asks, all proud and mighty of what he and his cohorts did.

 _Bet you won't expect my fist on your face, Weasel!_  But I do nothing of the sort. The poor boy – pun  _very_  much intended – is taller than me, and I'm not in the mood to hit something that can hit me back.

"Look!" Pansy spreads her arms wide and gestures around her. "Do you like it? I decorated your flat for you."

And I'll tell you to stop using your feminine touches, Pansy. They're sickening, actually. But, er. Weasley is standing by his 'woman'. See my reason for not wanting to be hit.

Potter pats me on the shoulder – I bite down the urge to punch him, because personally I don't like to be touched – and says, "Your bags are in your room. If you need anything, just—hey!"

Then Pansy grabs my arm and pulls me to a table. "Come on. Eat! You must be starving." And on the table there are colorful flowers and plates of sandwiches and a pitcher of pumpkin juice and some bottles of Butterbeer.

 _Nice_.

I still want to throttle them, though. Mark my words. One of these days I  _shall_  carry out my decidedly nefarious scheme and soon people will find three persons dead from asphyxiation.

I grab a sandwich and a bottle, and while I eat I look around my new… domain. Territory. Malfoy HQ. Whatever. And as I do… I shudder, moan, groan. In that order. The flat is so absurdly small, it might just suffocate me. I mean, two steps and I'm in kitchen, three steps and there's the door, four steps and there's the bedroom.

Where's the library? The music room? The thirty or so spare rooms? I almost scoff. Even my bathroom's bigger than this!

"What do you think?" Weasley asks, looking around also. He wears a very frightening look on his face. Please, someone, punch him to make it go away. "I remember when I used to live here. I loved this place. It's so comfortable! No brothers or sister to bother you for miles… absolute heaven." He sits on the sofa and leans back. Weasley shoots me a look. "You're a lucky bastard, Malfoy."

Er. Right. His statement just affirms my belief to never trust his absurd judgment.

"Do you like it?" Pansy asks eagerly.

Option one: lie and tell them I like it. Then they won't believe me and Pansy will just nag me to tell her how much I  _really_  like it until I beat my head repeatedly and lose consciousness.

Option two: be honest and tell them I loathe it. Then they won't believe me but Weasley will punch my brains out for insulting his former home.

Option three—

"So sorry I'm late, but Ron, this better be important—"

-do nothing but look at Granger's rather grand and self-important entrance.

"—I was in the middle of a meeting and I had to leave when you called because…" She takes off her cloak and puts it on the sofa, then looks up and stares at me. Granger looks very surprised, then flushed, then angry. "Malfoy. You're… here," she states.

"Very observant of you," I return.

And before I can even continue, she dismisses me and looks at Harry instead. "Why is he here?"

"You're late," Pansy said loudly, before Potter can speak.

Granger frowns. "For what? What's going on?"

Weasley scratches his head. "Er. Didn't I tell you?"

She looks like she's about to throttle Weasley until he's dead.

Well.  _That_  should be interesting to watch.

"Wait. I  _did_  tell you that Pansy and I decided to move in together, right? It was right after—"

Granger impatiently shakes her head. "Yes, yes, you told me that already. But my question is, what is  _he_ doing here?" She points at me, her finger very close to my nose.

I smirk. "Never knew subtlety's one of your weaker points, Granger." What'll she do if I bite that finger, I wonder?

"Shut up, Malfoy," she says acidly. "Ron. Talk."

Weasley looks at Pansy, who merely grins at him. He grunts in reply.

It must be pure torture to be in Weasley's place right now. Imagine having to explain yourself to a very angry bush that – in a few moments – will jump at you and suffocate you to death.

"Ron, I will count to ten and so help me if you don't explain yourself I'll—"

' _-jump on you and suffocate you to death._ ' I thought so.

He adjusts his collar and says, "Right. Um, well, Malfoy got rid of his manor and he needs a place to stay. I figured, since I won't be using this one, I'd let him take over the rent."

"You were late for his welcoming party, you see," Pansy elaborates her earlier statement. "Draco's moving in today."

It's fun to look at Granger's face. There's a lot of expressions lurking there, and now it looks like she really,  _really_ wants to hit someone. She turns to Potter. "And  _you_ didn't tell me? You didn't… object to this?"

He shrugs. "I can't see why I should, or why  _you_ should, for that matter."

So Potter's not afraid of suffocation, is he?

Granger purses her lips. "A word, if you may." And she marches in the direction of the tiny and cramped kitchen.

Potter shrugs at me and follows.

A lengthy silence ensues among Pansy, Weasley, and me, only to be interrupted by Weasley's sharp cry as Pansy steps hard on his foot. "I told you!" she all but shrieks. "I told you not to invite her here!"

He rubs his foot. "But she'll be angry if—"

"As opposed to such a joy she's being right now? You're such a—"

I leave them to their inane quarrel and walk to the table which is – conveniently - very near the door of the tiny and cramped kitchen. I grab another sandwich and strive hard to  _not_ listen to Pansy and Weasley so I can tune in to Potter and Granger's conversation.

After all, they  _are_ talking about me.

"I told you I don't want him here. I don't want him anywhere near me!"

Whatever is she on about? Unless she lives with Potter, there's no way in hell that I'll be anywhere near her!

Wait.  _Does_ she live with Potter? Do  _they_  have some sort of illicit love affair that—

Ugh. The very image of them – doing illicit things together - makes me ill.

"You go to work unreasonably early and go home late. You won't even  _see_  him."

"But knowing that his flat is just beneath  _mine_ —"

Interesting.

Images of me prodding the ceiling with the handle of a broom just to annoy Granger pop into my mind. Very,  _very_ entertaining indeed.

"Look. Hermione. I know that there're still some things between you and Malfoy that needed sorting out. But look at him. He needs our help. He has no one else. No one.  _You,_  of all people - can't you understand that?"

My easy mood vanishes in an instant. So. The great Harry Potter feels pity for me, eh? No one pities Draco Malfoy.  _No one._

The last one who did… well. Check him up in Azkaban. Room fifteen, fourteenth floor.

Silence. Then, "No, Harry. I can't. I won't. Ever. Because if he  _is_ alone, then maybe he  _deserves_  to be alone."

"Hermione—"

"I'm sorry I can't be as good or gullible or accepting as you and Ron apparently are. But I'm not a hypocrite, Harry. I know what type of person Malfoy is. And you think a person like that can easily change? You're an idiot if you do. I'm leaving." A loud pop serves as the punctuation of that statement.

Then Harry comes out of the kitchen looking like he's just barely survived a war. "I'm tired. I think I'll turn in," he mutters, then walks to the door and lets himself out.

I follow him and watch as he goes in his own room. I look up when I hear heavy steps trailing on the ceiling. Granger, no doubt.

 _Because if he_ is  _alone, then maybe he_ deserves  _to be alone._

And suddenly I just want to sleep.

Pansy must've picked up on my currently somber mood because she drags Weasley to the door, says, "Call us if you need anything," quickly kisses me on the cheek, and sets out.

And then, indeed, I  _am_ alone. Thank you for reminding me, Hermione Granger.

But, at least I have people around to annoy when I'm bored.


	2. Chapter 2

_Never begin a piece of writing with the word '_ the'  _as it makes for a trite, ill-conceived, over-used beginning._

I immediately think of the supposed title of my book, and – surprise, surprise – my evil, must-die muse gleefully point out the blasted word. I begin to think really,  _really_ hard. Will it pose a problem? Will it hinder my dreams of becoming a world-class, even-if-I-write-trash-it'll-be-a-bestseller author? Will it? _Will it?_

I stifle a laugh. Of course  _not._  I am, after all,  _Draco Malfoy._ I can very well name my book 'The the the  _the_ ' and still it will be a bestseller.

Because I'm gifted.

Because I'm phenomenal.

Because I'm Draco Malfoy.

It's as simple as that.

Besides, it's not like the book said, "thou shall not begin the title of your book with the word 'the'." Ha!

Stupid muse. From now on, I shall call you Ronald Weasley and mentally bash you over the head every time you dare criticize my God-given talents!

I throw my copy of  _How to Be a Really Really Really Good Writer_ inside my really really really small drawer, lean back on my really really really uncomfortable chair, and begin to mull over some changes in my life.

Ah, yes. Change. The one thing constant in my damned life.

So, in case anyone's wondering, I've already spent two days in my brand new – well, not-so brand new… actually, not-at- _all_ brand new house/flat/room, and I've come to three conclusions.

First, with my room not facing the east I cannot see the sunrise from my window. And I never forget to mentally throttle Potter for it. It's just not  _fair_. Fate has a habit of playing favorites and now she has her eyes set on Harry  _sodding_  Potter. Sure, since he's such an ugly and pathetic bloke let's all give him a chance and—

"I have to go!"

I look out and see Granger's inhumanly-fast-paced steps as she charges from the door out into the world. Idiot girl, doesn't she know she can just Apparate?

So, charitable as I am I call out to her and say, "Hermione, luv! Save yourself some time and Apparate to work!"

Then she looks up and throws a very dirty look at me. She may have flipped a finger but I guess that's just my imagination.

_Or is it?_

This is when I realize that what I actually said was, "Idiot girl! Don't you know you can just Apparate to work?"

Thus, the dirty look and imaginary finger.

At least I tried to be helpful to her! I'm  _that_  good a person already! I'm willing to build bridges with the people I hated before!

Anyway. Let's go back to my mulling, for I do not wish to dwell on such unimportant and  _unattractive_  matters.

Second, Pansy Parkinson is the worst woman in the history of the world to  _ever_  consult when it comes to interior decorating. Despite the unfortunate stereotype of men not caring about what their house looks like, I am definitely one of the best-looking exceptions to the rule. I  _do_ like my house to be neat and tidy and entirely habitable. I do like to have complementary colors on my sheets and furniture and curtains. It… adds some sort of elegant quality that truly befits a Malfoy and is not, in any way, a deterioration of my unquestionable manliness.

But this color scheme of Pansy's… well. I can only blame Weasley's unfortunate coloring and her natural Slytherin tendencies for the red-and-green combination that's currently making my head ache. It's like all the bloody Christmas elves in the world – oh, wait, they've  _all_ been liberated,  _damn you Granger,_  but do indulge me in this – came and raped my things to make them look like this. It's sickening, revolting, and entirely irremediable – yes, I've tried using my wand already. Didn't work.

Third, I can only insult every inch of the house for exactly twenty-four hours, because there's only so much things I can insult. I've listed down the things I hate about this bloody house, and I've categorized them into three headings: too-damn-small things, too-damn-cheap-things, and I-won't-touch-these-things-with-a-ten-foot-pole-things. The first category is actually a surprise to me, considering how gigantic Weasley is. The second… we  _are_ talking about Weasley, aren't we? Thus, the cheap taste. Him hooking up with Pansy did not improve matters, I see – and why am I  _not_  surprised at that? The third category… let me elaborate. The couch makes me cringe every time I look at it, because the thought of people – or Pansy and Weasley to be precise - doing… well,  _that_  on it – for Merlin knows how many times! - makes me green with the desire to puke. So the couch has to go. For that matter, so does the bed, the kitchen table, the sink, the tiles, the rugs…

Actually,  _all_ the damn furniture has to go.

And today, I will have to talk to Weasley about it.

I go to their new place – and I Apparated,  _take that Granger_! Pansy is curled up on the couch when I arrived and the smell of coffee's so powerful it makes me salivate elegantly.

Yes,  _elegantly._

"Draco!" she says, smiling. "What a nice surprise. Come. Sit here." She pats the empty place beside her.

Ew. Who knows what they did there last night? "I'd rather stand. Anyway, this'll be short." I look around. Red and green, as expected. What, doesn't she know about the existence of other colors? Like yellow, blue, violet… err, yellow? "So I take it you decorated the place."

Her grin widens. "Of course. I like the personal touch." Pansy flips her hair. "Besides, it's a testament to Interhouse unity."

I raise my brows at her. "But we're not in Hogwarts anymore."

"I know. Doesn't make me less than a Slytherin, though." She stands. "Do you want some coffee?"

"Black," I answer automatically. And I watch as she takes a green cup and pours some coffee into it. From a red coffee pot. The word 'overdoing' comes to my mind. "Where's Weasley?" I ask, looking around and trying hard not to throw up all over the red and green things.

"Taking a bath." She gives me the coffee and I smile and sip – damn, but it's strong and definitely good. "Why are you here?"

I drain the coffee and wordlessly ask for more. "I have to get rid of Weasley's things in the house."

She frowns. "Why?"

I sip my second cup. "Because I want to redecorate the place."

Pansy's frown becomes more menacing. "Redecorate? Why?  _I_ decorated your place."

Careful, Draco. She's holding a pot and she may just throw all that strong coffee at you. "I know. But like you said, it's all about… personal touches." I nod. "Like you said."

She considers that and gives in. I can tell because she's no longer threatening to bathe me in scalding-hot coffee. "Fine. I have to warn you, though, there'd be a lot of weeping involved."

Er, what? "Weeping? Aren't you overdoing it again? Look, just because I'm getting rid of your hideously-decorated furniture doesn't mean—"

"No, you stupid—I don't mean  _me_ weeping, I meant Ron."

And despite the fact that I am definitely entertained by the thought of Weasley weeping, something in me urges me to say, "I'm sure he won't cry over some damned furniture!" Because that will just be plain wrong, and stupid, and most of all—

"WHY!"

-something a Gryffindor normally does, I later on find out.

Delightful. A few moments after he comes in and I tell him my purpose and when my words finally sink in his pathetically small brain two huge drops of tears roll down his face and he repeats, "WHY!"

What to say? What to say what to say what to  _freakin_ ' say without losing my life to this humongous, small brained— "You can keep them if you want! I even thought of you picking them up, and bringing them here, and— it'll be just like your olden days, Weasley! With all your furniture, and… all… your… furniture…"

And he blinks and his eyes widen in a way that reminds me of how girls looked at me during my Hogwarts days.

Weasley looks at me like I'm a  _god_.

I mean _of course_ I am one, but that's not the point.

And now he's standing, and his arms lift like he's going to choke me, or—or—

"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WEASLEY LET ME GO!"

And I go out of their house before the pathetic freak tries to hug me again.

* * *

 

So now that I'm free of Weasley's things, I can buy my own elegant, expensive, truly-befitting-a-Malfoy furniture.

I'm such a genius, sometimes even  _I_ am overwhelmed by my own ingenuity.

Of course, there is a tiny, teeny glitch.

I don't actually know _where_ to start looking for all those expensive, truly-befitting-a-Malfoy furniture.

Which is why I'm at Potter's door, knocking.

"Potter!" I bellow. "Potter! Open this door this instant or I'll—"

The door swings open and, behold – the bespectacled freak of nature sleepily blinks at me. "Malfoy?"

"I need your help," comes out of my mouth.

What? I'm desperate! Despite my fiercely proud and independent nature, I do know when to ask for help!

He gets rid of his glasses and rubs his eyes. "For what?"

"I need to shop for furniture. Now."

_That_ catches his attention. "Isn't Ron's place fully-furnished?"

I snort. "Right. Because I really really  _really_  want to use all the furniture they had sex on."

He smiles in a twisted sort of way. "So… you didn't sleep on the bed? Or the couch? Or – that huge table by the fireplace?" He catches my look of disgust and says, "Don't ask me how I know. I just do."

"I'd rather rot than touch all those hideous things! I slept on the floor, you freak. Which, considering I'm  _Draco Malfoy,_ is definitely an insult to  _me_. And did I mention that you're a  _freak?_ "

"Twice. Right. Err." He checks the back of his wrist. "Can't you shop alone?"

"I would, only I don't want to." And besides, I really don't know where to do my shopping.

But hell will freeze over before I admit that to him!

Potter looks at me disbelievingly, and I wonder for a moment if he can read minds.

I grit my teeth. "Fine. I don't know where to shop. Because… we did have elves, and… my mother…you know…. and I didn't have to… know," I finish lamely.

He nods. "I thought it'd be along those lines." Potter checks the back of his wrist again. "Unfortunately, you came at a bad time. I have to go to work _now_."

But— "But you were still sleeping not more than ten minutes ago! And dressed like  _that?_ "

Potter is unfazed. The bastard. "Yes. Dressed like this. Though…" He checks the back of his wrist _again_ and if he keeps on doing that I'll shove the blasted thing down his—"I think Hermione's free."

Er. What? "So?"

"So,  _she_ can come with you."

"She's at work."

"She's on her lunch break."

"She wants to kill me."

"Yeah. She does."

I wave my hand loftily. "I'm not  _that_ desperate, thank you very much." I glare at him. "Fine. I'll go back to my house and you go to hell." Then I walk away.

But something makes me turn back. "Potter…"

He looks at me questioningly.

"Why?"

"Why, what?"

The words are stuck in my throat. But I've been wondering, since that night they welcomed me in the house… "Why does she want to kill me?"

Potter looks at me like he wants to tell me the reason. Then he shrugs and says, "Doesn't everyone?"

Which is true, you know. "Right, right." I go to my door.

"Maybe you should ask her," he tells me finally.

And before I can ask him further, he's already closed his door.

* * *

 

So I'm back in my own room, and I've come to two more realizations.

One, the room is better without the too-damn-small things, too-damn-cheap-things, and I-won't-touch-these-things-with-a-ten-foot-pole-things around. I have all this beautiful space, and without the ugly colors around the room looks much improved. I don't have to worry about using overused furniture nor sleeping on things other people actually  _slept_  on.

Two – and this is more important - I don't have any furniture  _at all._ For Merlin's sake, I don't even have a damn chair to sit on, because I all but shoved it down Weasley's throat in fear of touching something other people actually  _touched_  each other on!

So I'm sitting on the floor and thinking, this is too damned pathetic.  _I'm sitting on the damned floor for crying out loud!_ I have to buy furniture. I have to, for the love of all things expensive and luxurious!

I stand, and with my resolution made I dash to the door and go out.

I don't care if I'm alone. I'm driven by something primal – to surround myself with expensive things!

And that's when a walking bush comes up to me and decides to get rid of another Malfoy in the world through suffocation.

Or, rather – I bump into Granger, and we both stumble to the ground.

"Oh for the love of—get off me!" She pushes me away, and scrambles to straighten herself. Granger shoots another dirty look at me and says through clenched teeth, "Watch where you're going would you!"

"Don't you mean  _you_ watch where  _you're_ going?" I hiss – well, as much as I can without saying the letter 's'. "You're the one who decides to play 'let's kill Malfoy' and—"

"Pointless," she says succinctly. "It's always pointless talking to you." Granger marches up and past me when she halts unexpectedly and I realize –

\- that I've grabbed her hand to keep her from walking away from me. "What the  _hell_ is wrong with you?" I ask, my anger rising up to the surface. Damnit, I don't know what her problem is, and all I want is-

She tries to shake my hold on her, but I won't budge. "Let go off me! People are  _staring!_ "

"I don't care," I snarl.

Then her eyes flash and she says, quietly, "No. That's always been your problem. You really don't."

And because of my confusion, I let her go, and she walks up to the apartment and closes the door behind her.

And while I still want to go out and shop, I feel like it's not as important anymore – because Granger's just burst my bubble with all her pent-up anger at Merlin-knows-what I did, so I decide to just, just—

I knock on her door. "Granger!" I yell. I try her doorknob, and surprise, surprise – it's open.

I step inside.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demands, hands instinctively looking for her wand. Granger's just taken off her coat, and she looks at me like I'm about to pounce and do very unimaginable things to her body.

Ha! You wish, Granger!

"Door's open," I tell her, and she shoots a look at the offending piece before returning her attention to me.

"What the  _hell_ are you doing here?" she asks again.

"I—" How to start? Hi, I just want to know why you're a being such a bitch to me? Somehow, I know I'll die for that. "I just—"

"Aren't you too old to have a stuttering problem?"

And my anger rises up and I say, "Aren't  _you_  too old to still hold grudges?"

She looks taken aback, and then she purses her lips. "You've always been used to getting what you want the quick way," Granger all but spits. "You easily had Harry and Ron forgive you, and you think you can get  _me_ to forgive you as easily? Let me tell you, you arrogant, egotistic—"

"What the hell are you talking about, woman? Are you – are you telling me that you're being like this because you're bitter your friends  _forgave_  me?" I emit a harsh laugh. "Do you know just how inane that sounds?"

"And do you know I can have you arrested for breaking and entering?"

"I didn't break your door; you left it open. Which is another stupid thing to do, and you're  _avoiding_  the issue!"

"I—don't—care!" She then shoves me. "Get out! Get out!"

"Wait!" And before she sends me out, I say – desperately, and without thought – "Do you know where I can buy furniture?"

And then I realize I just pulled a Ron Weasley.

Meaning, I just did something stupid.

Because she's trying to kill me, and I ask about  _furniture?_

And I think Granger thought about that, too, because her mouth dropped open for a minute. But before she pushed me out of her flat something flying knocks me on my back and for a moment a smooth, paper-y thing covers my face.

It's a magazine.

Last month's issue of  _The Zen of Housekeeping._

With a feature on  _Fantastic Furniture and Where to Find Them!_

So, needless to say – I now have furniture.

Thank you, Hermione Granger.


	3. Chapter 3

_Writing is a way to let loose your imagination and free your soul._

Right. The walking, living truth every writer knows deep inside his heart. The mantra every author repeats to himself as his litany. The air every creator breathes each day.

Of course, it all freakin' depends if that writer, author, and creator – who, in this case, is  _me_ – can  _actually_  write!

Oh, the world must be ending. Any time now, the sun will fall from the sky, the stars will shatter into millions of pieces, and the moon will turn blood-red.

Damn it, even at exaggerating I cannot come up with more artistic metaphors. See?  _See?_ The extent of my troubles, the pit of my worries? It seems like I… I have… my creativity… I can't accept this. I just can't! It's too horrible… it seems like… like…

I cannot write.

Damn bloody damnit all to hell. This has never, ever happened before! Even in my lowest moment – that being trapped inside a cage with no companion but a rat and, well, I don't really want to dwell on the specifics here because my point is – I can bloody well write at any damn time and place I please. Why, that's where and when I wrote a brilliant piece of mine called, "An Ode to a Smelly Rat"!

No.  _No._ I refuse to accept this. There must be some cosmic imbalance behind this abnormality. Probably an enemy traded his soul with some quack doctor and part of their agreement was to rob me of my genius! Which is probable, you know, because I do have many enemies out there!

This is a test of my willpower and resolve, I just know it. Well! I'll show them who they're dealing with! I stare at the achingly blank parchment in front me, determination coursing through my veins, resolve pounding a sinister rhythm in my heart. I will stay here and force myself to write. Even if it takes a lifetime. Even if it takes  _forever._

I will  _not_ yield to this monstrous desire to do something else! I will  _not_  stand, eat, even breathe until I am able to produce at least three thousand words! I will  _not_ give up!

After approximately three seconds, I give up.

_Sigh._

This is most vexing. Most frustrating. Most… well, words that have the same meaning as vexing and frustrating. Why now? Why is it that, the day I moved into Weasley's apartment was the day my muse decided to pack and take a vacation? Sure, she continues to bug me with her destructive criticisms but, as far as production goes… nothing. Not even a single bloody—

Hang on. Seems like I just solved this mental dilemma.

Yes, that's it! I haven't been able to write anything since the day I moved into Weasley's old and dilapidated flat, which is, oh, approximately ten days ago. Not one word from my gifted mind has been put into paper ever since.

So naturally, this is  _Weasley's_ fault.

Well, I've got to give the poor bloke a break. I mean, maybe it isn't his entire fault that I'm fooled into taking his decrepit place. Why, I won't even be here if Potter hadn't come and literally forced me to take it!

Technically, this – as well as a lot of other unresolved issues in my life – is  _Potter's_  fault.

But, sure, I have to admit that the bespectacled freak is only trying to help me. Can he help it that he has this annoying habit of shoving his help down anyone's throat? Besides, Potter wouldn't have volunteered Weasley's decaying apartment if I  _did_  have a place to live in, which wasn't the case, since I already took Pansy's advice and sold the bloody, nightmare-inducing manor to the highest bidder.

Pansy's fault all along.

That conniving little snake. I should've known she still harbors some deep and complicated feelings for me! No matter how many times she denies it and tells of her love for Weasley, she will never ever get over me! Her advices are all borne out of spite, though even I have to give her some credit. I mean, if it weren't for her I wouldn't have realized that the absence of house elves was a good reason for selling the manor, as I couldn't bloody well clean it by myself.

Aha! I've finally figured out the real fiend in this! The true reason why I, Draco Malfoy, writer extraordinaire, am not able to write is because of one Hermione Granger! She probably envisioned this day since that time in our fourth year, and while she's knitting house elf scarves and hats she's also plotting my downfall!

That… that Muggleborn. Jumped-up  _Mudblood!_ Agh! Just thinking of her makes me angry. Yes, angry lines are already forming on my face, marring my perfection… must calm down, must think of… calming… things… like the blue of the ocean, the wings of a butterfly, the duet of a lady and her goatherd—

On second thought, this issue must be solved  _immediately_. I must talk to her at once! I must make her stop whatever enchantment she has done to me!

With my resolve made, I walk to my door and open it.

Lo and behold, I see the monster that lives across my threshold come out of his lair.

"Malfoy—"

"No time to talk, have to kill Granger," I push through clenched teeth. I march to the stairs whilst pondering, how does one kill a girl with his bare hands?

"Reschedule it," Potter says calmly at my back. "She's not there."

I pause to look at him. "She's not? But it's only… what, six in the morning?"

"Actually, it's already eleven-thirty."

I stare at him in open-mouthed horror. What? What! "Surely that's not— I mean, it can't be that late! Your sense of time must be faulty at best."

He sighs. "You want to see my watch?"

"Your  _what?_ "

"My watch—timepiece."

At my astounded look he lifts his arm and shoves the back of his wrist to my face until I swat it away. "Get off me! I don't want to see any piece of you!"

"But I was just showing you my—"

"I'm not interested in your Muggle ways!" I all but shriek. "And you're diverting me from the issue. Granger's not upstairs?"

He shakes his head. "At this hour, she must be where all the other working people are – in their offices."

I cross my arms. "So why are  _you_  here?"

"Because, like you, I don't work in an office?" He looks irked. "Don't you remember, there still are Aurors like me that—"

"Yes, yes, do let's hear 'your special Auror job' speech. Only let's not. I just—" I send a hopeful look at the stairs. "It's just—"

"Why'd you want to see Hermione, anyway?" Curiosity predictably coats his pathetic face.

"You mean why do I want to kill her?" I let out a loud breath and a feral grin. "Simple. She's done something to me and I want her to undo it."

His brows come together. "And what's that?"

I smirk. "Surely you don't expect me to disclose that to  _you,_  do you?"

Potter looks extremely put off. "Why not?"

"Because… I don't want to?"

"Fine." A smile begins to form on Potter's face, making him more hideous and ghastly looking. "Then wait for her until she comes back, while  _I_  meet her for lunch."

"What? You're meeting her for lunch?" At his proud nod I say, "I'll go with you."

"And what if I say no?"

"You won't."

"I won't?"

"Yes."

"But what if I do?"

"Then I'll kill you first, find Granger and kill her too."

Potter pauses prominently. "You're really desperate to see her, aren't you?" he asks in an amused tone I intensely dislike.

"Very," I say truthfully.

Because, as a writer, author, and creator – I'm willing to do anything to be able to write again.

 _Anything_.

* * *

 

"And what, exactly, is  _he_ doing here?"

"Fine afternoon to you too, luv," I drawl, as I take the seat opposite from hers. I throw her a wicked grin while she seethes in her unfortunate gray uniform.

Potter sits himself between us. "Relax, Hermione. He's just here to—err—" Potter turns to me. "Why do you want to see her, again?"

"Because I want to kill her," I answer.

"Right." Potter smiles benignly at Granger. "He wants to kill you."

"I  _heard_  him!" she glowers, still glaring at me.

"Manners, Granger." I point to her chair. "You're supposed to sit down when your guests have done so already."

"You're not my guest," she says, but begrudgingly takes her seat.

For a few seconds, none of us is willing to break the silence. Potter squints at his menu, I stare at Granger, and she studiously keeps her attention on the small attack of paper in front of her.

"I think I'll take the baked chicken. Looks great." Potter looks up. "What about you two?"

"Coffee," I say.

"Tea," she says at the same time.

"That's it?" Potter asks. He shows Granger the menu. "I thought you liked their Tuna Surprise?"

"I'm not hungry."

"What about you, Malfoy? This Shrimp Sunrise sure looks tasty."

"Then order it yourself. I'm not hungry."

"Fine. One coffee, one tea." Potter shrugs. "That'll surely fill you both up." Then he goes away.

For a few terse seconds, silence reigns in our table.

"Quit staring at me or I'll tear your eyeballs off," she says, rather distractedly. Granger then crosses something out on her paper.

Odd that her threats don't hold much sting. She must be too engrossed in what she's doing. Why, that's almost insulting! Curious, I try to get a good look at her paperwork.

"I said—"

"Whoever said I'm looking at you? I'm looking at your work."

Granger pauses just enough to glare at me. "Then stop looking."

"Why? What  _are_  you doing?"

"None of your business."

"Of course it's not, it's  _your_ work, after all."

"Then stop—"

"You know, Granger, you'll save us lots of time if you tell me what's that you're doing already. Otherwise, we'll just do this all day long."

She leans back on her chair and scrutinizes me carefully. "Tell me why you're here first, because from what I remember  _Harry's_  the only one I invited for lunch, not some blond bastard I refuse to name."

See, here's my dilemma. If I ask her about my case of writer's block, then she'll figure out that I actually write – a fact that I'm not yet ready to share with the rest of the world. But if I don't ask her, then the spell will still be with me and it's possible I won't be able to write ever again.

Damn you Granger! She thought this all the way through. I know she did!

Without batting an eye I ask her, "Do you promise to be honest with me?"

"Why should I?"

"Because I ask you to?"

"And just who do you think  _you_  are to ask me that?"

I smile. "Just the person who can answer the question, 'What am I doing here with you when I can very well do something else more productive?'"

Silence.

"Do you promise?" I press, noticing once again that she's too focused on her work. I pound on our table.

"Huh? What? Yes, yes, just—"

"Did you cast a spell on me during fourth year?"

 _That_ gets her attention. She drops her pen. "What? No! That's just—"

Just then, Potter comes to us with a tray in his hands. "Tea for you, coffee for you, baked chicken and white wine for me."

Granger sends him a withering look. "It's high noon and you're drinking wine?"

"Let him be, Mother," I tell her tonelessly.

She sends  _me_ a withering look in response.

I take the coffee in my hands.  _Ah, sweet, sweet black heaven, let me drown in your caffeine abyss_. I sip. "So, Potter, Granger here's all secretive about her work. What is it, anyway?"

"She's—"

"I'm an Ancient Runes Translator," she answers instead, fixing me a beady look while drinking her tea. "Assistant Head of our department."

"Huh. And here I thought your job's to annoy people to death, because you sure do a great job in it." I flash her some teeth.

She bares her fangs. "Well, that job's already occupied. By  _you._ "

"Touché." I set my cup down, my offense armed and ready. "Assistant Head, eh? How unfortunate that Hermione Granger's still beaten by some wizard at that job. So, just how do you assist him? Do you get to do his coffee, fetch him his things?"

Granger's quiet for a few seconds.  _Score one for me!_ "What about you, Malfoy?" she asks in a softer, more sinister tone. "What do  _you_  do for a living? Aside from, well, counting money and past sins you've done."

I bristle. "Wouldn't you want to know?"

She smiles, largely and insincerely. "That's why I'm asking. Don't tell me…" Granger leans in for the kill, "…you don't have a job? The  _great_ Draco Malfoy? I don't believe it." She picks her cup. "But maybe that's just why you're not telling."

We don't speak with each other for a few seconds, and other than the loud munching of Potter at my side I'm not aware of anything else but her. The way she looks at me, she's experiencing the same thing.

"Say, Hermione, why'd you want to see me today?" Potter asks between bites, breaking the tension between us.

She reluctantly looks at him. "Well, I wanted to ask you if you're available tomorrow night."

"Why?" I ask. "Are you asking him for a date?" The idea of them, doing illicit things together… I can't help the frown that forms on my face. Disgusting!

"No," she says, scowling at me. She then smiles at Harry. "One of my colleagues is asking you for a date."

"I think I know who that is," Harry says, shaking his head. He swallows. "The answer is one big  _hell no_. Tell Millicent that."

"But—"

"Millicent works for the Ministry?" I ask, surprised despite myself.

But no one pays attention to me.

"Oh come on, Harry, please! It'll just be for one night. If you go out with her, maybe she'll stop asking me about you, and maybe she can actually… you know, work!"

"No!"

While they're busy ignoring me, the  _idiots,_ I happen to notice that Granger's notes have become loose from her obsessive hold on them, making them free for the taking.

Which I do.

"Hey! Give—"

I study the notes for a second, then start laughing. "You tell me you're the Assistant Head in Ancient Runes Translation and yet you can't translate this one little word?"

She becomes red in the face. "Why? Can  _you_?"

I smile. "Yes, I can. It's actually very easy." Plucking the pen from her – I ignore her shriek – I say, "Watch and learn, Muggleborn. This word—" I underline it, "—is Mycenaean in origin, used as an adjective then. But through time and tribal translation this word has become a verb, and that is—" I scribble down five letters.

She scoffs when I show her my work. "I don't believe you. I'm not taking that."

"Then research it in your big, dusty libraries. Be my guest and waste your time, but I assure you I'm correct."

Granger looks at Potter. "Can you believe the nerve of this—this—"

"Actually, Hermione, I do." He wipes his mouth with a napkin. "You asked what his job was, right?"

She frowns at him. "What does  _that_  have to do with—"

Potter clears his throat. "Well, he was actually the Order's Official Runes Translator."

I puff out my chest. "Still is."

He sends me a wry look. "Not that we still need you or anything."

Granger's mouth hangs open. " _What?_ But he isn't— I mean, why didn't I—"

"I believe you were on leave when I was appointed," I tell her, though I'm not sure why I remember that fact. "I think you were… securing your parents or something."

She still looks shocked. "But… I was gone for two weeks only."

"Well." I grin. "You missed a lot. My appointment, Voldemort's defeat…" I can't help but add, "Me, Potter, and Weasley reluctantly forming a triumvirate…"

"I realize that," she snaps.

"What's a triumvirate?" Potter asks.

But no one minds him.

Granger glares at me, then makes a big show of checking the back of her wrist. "I have to go," she says, standing and collecting her papers. She pauses, then looks at Potter. "Please reconsider, Harry."

"I won't!" he vehemently declares.

She shrugs. "Well, see you," Granger tells him. She turns to me. "And you go to hell."

Then I notice that she intentionally left the paper I wrote my help in. That stupid little girl! I reach in, take a pen from my pocket, and start to scribble furiously:

_Some people could only be so stupid_

_Wanting help but claiming they don't need it_

_To you, Granger, I do solemnly declare_

_I won't aid you anymore! See if I care!_

_-Ode to A Stupid Girl_

_Malfoy 0605_

Well, I'll be damned. I can write again!


	4. Chapter 4

_Give your characters a part of yourself, without them being identical to yourself._

Well, since I  _am_ writing an autobiography, then I can just ignore this tidbit, right?

…

Eh, what do  _you_  know? You're just a stupid muse.

…

Ahem! Anyway.

All right. Quill and paper:  _check_. Ink:  _check_. Butterbeer:  _check_. Some unidentified melted sweets from somewhere beneath my closet: _check_. A highly-motivated and definitely-in-the-mood-to-put-his-ideas-on-paper writer:  _check._

I crack my knuckles in a way reminiscent of Goyle before attacking a cooked turkey and of Crabbe before attacking an ickle firstie. Ahhhh... good times. But these memories are diverting me from my task today, which is coming up with a framework for my autobiography.

Yes, an  _autobiography._ A biography of a life that will be from the point of view of the person living it, which in this case, is  _me_.

I have to admit, taking this nonfiction path isn't my first choice. I had my heart set on making my first book a fictional retelling of my story, with all the names changed and I, as the privileged author, would be dubbing Ron Weasley as  _Rolly_   _Weairdalot_ and Pansy as  _Petunia Perkymuch._ Harry Potter would forever be known as  _Henry Patheticgit_ and Hermione Granger would become  _Henrietta Gaghernow._ It was all amusing, really. But then I realized the potential problems that might arise from this – like, say, changing  _my_ name as well since I cannot mix truth and fiction in one book – and though charming the name  _Drake Marcus_ is absolutely  _nothing_  compared to the powerful, awe-inspiring  _Draco Malfoy_. Regrettably, I decide to just stick with reality and stick with their uglier-than-thou names, for the sake of using my more beautiful one.

So! Autobiography. I must have a model so that at least I have a guide. Alas, the last I've read,  _Memoirs of Marguerite Malfoy_ , is an absolutely insipid book written by one of my relatives, my father's aunt's second cousin's daughter's niece to be exact. It centers more on her and her husband's budding-then-blazing romance, and the only thing lacking in it to become one of those trashy romance novels is a picture of a half-naked man and a woman with heaving bosoms.

Oh, wait, it  _had_ one of those!

Anyway.

So, like I said, I need a model to copy… err, emulate. And with my bookshelves almost bare I—

"Mreow."

I pause.

Whatever.

The only books I have in my shelves are my writing books, and those centers more on writing fiction instead of—

"Mreeeoow."

I look up.

Anyway.

I think tomorrow, as it is nighttime already, I shall buy myself some weird wizard's autobiography. If  _Flourish and Blott's_  still on sale, I may—

"Mreeeeeeoooooooowww!"

"What the bloody hell is making that noise?" I thunder, pushing back my chair and standing up. Just when I can concentrate on writing my bestselling-book-to-be, I get interrupted by some freakin' thing! Of all the stupid, ill-willed, nasty luck!

Looking around me, I notice that everything is in its proper order. There's that beautifully round wooden table with burgundy chairs I bought, the elegant chandelier, the plush sofa with a hideously ugly orange cat lying on it, the—

Hang on.

Since when did I own something ugly?

The orange cat blinks at me, opens its mouth and says, "Mreow."

For once in my life, I am speechless and I don't know what to do. I mean, what exactly do you do to a cat that seems content lying on your sofa? Especially one as huge and ugly as this?

As though it read my mind, it stands, stretches, displays its claws and says again, "Mreeeoow," in a more sinister tone.

Honestly, I don't know what to do with it, except not to insult the damned thing. I'm not entirely sure I can touch the cat, as it can very well shred my arm to pieces if I tried. Or it might bite me and I'll bleed profusely and die. Or it can lunge at me and tear my eyes out.

Well, I wasn't  _exactly_  raised with animals around me, you see. When I was small and I see a pet I wanted my mother would pat me on the cheek and say sweetly, "Don't worry darling, we'll get you a muggle someday." And I didn't know what a muggle was then, so I'd just agree and wish she'd get me one sooner so I have something to play with.

My mother never did get me a muggle, or any pet at all for that matter, and though I can handle owls and the occasional eagles I'm not certain I can handle the four-legged types of animals.

Remember that… ahem, that third year incident involving that nasty Buckbeak? It nearly slashed my arm off; it did!

And this one is just staring at me with its beady little eyes, waiting for me to move so it can strike back.

My instinct is telling me,  _run Draco run!_

My pride is screaming,  _stay Draco stay!_

Merlin this is  _ridiculous!_ Why am I scared of this little monster? I fought bigger beasts that this! I am infinitely better than this flat-faced furry animal! I must—

Then, it jumps down on the floor and walks towards me.

I freeze.

The orange menace approaches my feet, and I feel sweat running down the length of my back. I close my eyes. Any minute now, it will tear into my knees and I'll fall on the ground, helpless, begging as it devours my flesh, as it drinks my blood and—

" _Purr._ "

Um, something soft is brushing against my leg. Is that a good thing or…

" _Purr."_

I summon the courage to open one eye, and I see the cat… rubbing its side against my leg.

" _Purr._ "

Oh. All right.

I blink. It sits and blinks back at me.

Longingly, I look at my writing table. Then I look at the cat. I know I must do something to get rid of the cat to get back to my writing, so I did.

Taking a deep breath, I pick it up, open the door, and throw the cat into the hall. Let it go back to where it came from. It lands on its feet and before it can look and attack me I slam the door.

Where was I? Oh, right. Tomorrow I will go to Diagon Alley, pick up a few things, samples of autobiographies and such. Probably I can bribe Pansy into coming along so I can have her buy me food and have her carry my bags for me.

But! My future plans must not stop me from producing something today. Don't autobiographies usually start with the author's earliest reco—

"Mreow."

No, no, no, NO.

I turn around, and the ugly cat is back. Lying on the sofa. Beady eyes looking at me. Claws tearing into my plush furniture.

I toss it out with unnecessary vehemence.

Picking my quill, I put my thoughts into paper.  _Chapter one will be about my birth and childhood. I think I_

"Mreow."

After tossing it out for the third time, I lock my door, lock my windows, lock anything that's open, and sit down to write.

_From what I recall Mother saying, I was delivered by some mediwitch… Glenda Drufus or something like_

"Mreow."

!(?)(&!#&!(?)(&!#&

I am  _this close_  to stabbing my eye with a quill.

Taking out my wand, I point it at the cat. It blinks indifferently. I say in my sternest voice, "You must be some former enemy of mine, aren't you? That's your animagus form, isn't it? What, you're hoping you can catch me off-guard so you can kill me? Well, I'm onto you fiend! Prepare to suffer my wrath!  _Finite Incantatem!_ "

…

All right, so it's not some mortal enemy of mine or  _whatever_ , just a damn nuisance of a cat intentionally driving me out of my freakin' mind and doing a hell good of a job at it. I pick it up, ignore its purring head, open my door, and march out.

Someone  _must_ own this thing. Someone  _must_ pay.

I pound on Potter's door. "Potter! Come out! Come out! Cooomee ouuuttt!"

Yes, I am at the last fiber of my patience. How the bloody hell can you tell?

The door opens, and surprisingly  _Pansy_  is behind it. She smiles. "Draco! Good, good, you're here. Ron and I were just about to—what  _is_ that you're holding?" She instinctively steps back and shields her face with her hands.

"What do you  _think_?" I snarl at her. I go inside with the cat dangling from my hands, still purring. "Where's Potter?"

"In his room. Ron's there, too. They're looking at something of Potter's that, according to him, would not interest  _me._ " She huffs. "Damn straight! Absolutely nothing of Potter's would interest me and – no! No! Don't put it down, it might bite me! It's…" But despite her words, Pansy draws closer to the cat. "It's so…  _orange._  And huge. And ugly—"

"Mreooww!"

"Ahh!" She shrieks, jumping in time to avoid the razor-sharp claws.

"Don't call it that, it gets offended," I say. I mouth at her, " _It can read minds."_

Pansy mouths back at me, " _And you're insane._ "

A door opens, and Weasley comes out. "What? What was that? What happened? Did you just scream?"

Potter follows, and he frowns at the cat I'm holding. "Hey, isn't that—"

Then something very much like heavy footsteps reaches my ears. It comes from outside. Like a whirlwind Granger runs inside the room, flushed, out of breath. "Harry! Harry, have you seen— _Crookshanks!_ " She grabs the cat out of my hands and cradles it to her, kissing its head.  _Eww._  "Oh, here you are, I thought I lost you again. Honestly! Didn't I tell you to—"

"Mreow." And despite it being showered with bloody kisses and hugs, the damn cat is still looking at  _me._

"You  _own_ that little monster?" I ask, glaring at her and her bloody cat.

She glares back. "What have you done to my cat, you bastard?"

Indignation burns at me. "What have I done? What have  _I_ done?" I point at it and say, "That bloody cat ruined my night! I was about to, well… no, wait a minute, why the bloody hell should I explain to  _you_? I don't have to explain anything to you!"

Granger screws her face into this expression of extreme distaste and says, "Oh, if I find out that you've harmed Crookshanks in any way I'm going to—"

"I did not do anything to it you stupid—and what bloody kind of name is Crookshanks!"

"None of your business!"

"Damn straight it's not!"

"Bastard!"

"Idiot!"

"Ferret!"

"Stupid girl!"

And out Granger goes, taking her stupid cat with her.

And in I stay, taking deep breaths, trying to rein in my anger and desire to  _murder._

"Err. Right," Potter says after a few minutes. "Anyone care for some dinner?"

* * *

 

It's been a long, harsh, tiring day, and all I want to do now is to sleep.

The bed is beckoning. My eyes are drifting shut. My writing tools are kept and ready for tomorrow's use, so in the meantime I will just—

"Mreow."

Oh dear God NO.

Turning away from my bedroom, I walk into the living room and find the cat lying contentedly on the sofa. For the nth time that night.

"What have I ever done to you to punish me like this?" I say to it, feeling foolish that I'm speaking to an animal.

The cat blinks at me, then proceeds to lick itself.

"If Granger finds you here, I can't promise which one of us will die first," I say.

The cat just purrs.

Tentatively, I reach out and touch the cat. It has a soft fur, like velvet. The cat purrs again, then prods my fingers with its head. I touch its cold nose, then move my hand up until I'm stroking its entire length.

It's a curious feeling, watching and just hearing the animal breathe. Its eyes drift shut, and soon it is sleeping rather soundly.

I smile.

This cat is one weird animal, just like its owner.

Who is, predictably, knocking on my door, shattering the settled peace and the cat's sleep.

I open my door, and am greeted by the sight of Granger in her night robe. "What?"

"My cat, if you please."

"I didn't steal it."

"But Crookshanks  _is_ there, right?"

I smirk. "No."

She glares at me. "Liar. I can see my cat on your sofa."

"Like I said, I didn't steal your cat."

"So why is it there?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I don't even know how it gets inside."

She crosses her arms. "It must be because my cat's smart and you're not."

"Well, the reason your cat's here is because it likes me and not you."

"That's not true; I've had Crookshanks for years already!"

"Probably why it's looking for a new owner."

Huffing, she pushes me away and walks to the sofa. "Crookshanks, I told you not to—" She pauses, then looks around. "Crookshanks? Crookshanks!"

"What? Cat's not there?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "No, no, it must've ran off when we were…  _close the door_ would you!"

"I live to obey your wishes, mistress," I tell her dryly. I close the door.

Granger sinks on the floor on all fours and looks around. "You are such an arrogant, annoying, haughty little—Crooshanks!  _Wait!_ "

We both see the cat dash into my bedroom. We both run inside, just in time to see a huge speck of orange squeeze itself out of a barely-open window.

"So  _that's_ how that cat gets here," she mutters, walking to the offending window and closing it. Granger whirls at me. "Next time, do us a favor and keep this bolted shut. I don't want to have my cat anywhere near here or  _you_ , do you understand?"

"So you're moving out?"

Her eyes widen. "What? I didn't—"

"You said you don't want your cat anywhere near  _here_ or  _me,_  and since you live near me…" I leave the words unsaid.

For a few seconds, she is speechless. Color blooms on her cheeks, nails dig into her palms and she utters the supremely intelligible "Ughhhh!" before almost running out of my apartment.

Heh.

That was fun.

Must do it again.

Casually, I open the window, and let Crookshanks do its thing.

Predictably, when I wake up the cat is there, lying contentedly on my sofa.

_Mwahahaha._

I can't wait for Granger to see this one.


	5. Chapter 5

_Using an exclamation point after a question mark is an abomination._

Right. And so is cavorting with one's enemies, I believe.

Or is it a common practice nowadays? Something about keeping them closer and-

"Where are we going, again?" Weasley asks, eagerly rubbing his hands together.

"When I asked Pansy out, I don't believe my invitation extended to you," I say harshly, glaring at him. Mimicking his tone, I mutter, "Why are you here, again?"

He just rolls his eyes and says, "Quit being a git, you git. I'm here because- well, actually, I don't know why." He fixes his stare at his girlfriend. "Where are we going again?"

"We'll be helping Draco buy something," Pansy answers, a bit distracted. She frowns. "Where did you get that shirt? I thought I threw that one away - the very day we moved in together."

Weasley proudly lifts the collar of the said shirt. "I dug it up. You can't throw this away, this is my favorite shirt!"

Which certainly explains a lot about his character, in my opinion. I mean, what kind of pathetic idiot will actually  _like_ a shirt that's orange in color and has some weird scribble that says ' _Orange you glad I love you_ '?

Weasley you poor, pathetic bastard. I almost pity Pansy for shackling herself with the likes of you.

Which certainly explains a lot about  _her_ character, I believe. I mean, what kind of pathetic, desperate female will actually allow herself to associate with the likes of  _him?_  And for that matter-

Wait a bloody minute.

Just  _what_ am I doing with the likes of them anyway! Me, the epitome of virtue and good looks! Me, the vessel of supreme intelligence and extreme humility! Me, the personification of beauty and truth!

Cavorting, that's what.

Which is an  _abomination._

Eh, well.

"Well, aren't you?"

Pansy lifts her brows. "What? Aren't I what?"

He flashes his huge, nightmare-inducing grin, points at his hideous clothing and proudly says, "Orange you glad I love you?"

OH MY BLEEDING BRAIN, that has got to be the most idiotic, stupid, crass-

"That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Pansy comments snidely, redeeming herself in my eyes.

Maybe she  _has_ some taste anyway.

Then Pansy ruins the moment by smiling beatifically at Weasley and saying, "You are such a stupid dork. Come here, you."

I have to leave. Right  _now_. Or else, all the food I've eaten since last Spring will come out of my mouth and I will disgrace myself and the holiest name of the Malfoy clan and-

Kissing sounds! Moans!  _Merlin_! I walk away, disgusted, annoyed, irritated, and very much repulsed by the scene I've the unluckiest misfortune to witness.  _Eeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwww_. I have the strongest urge to scrub myself until I'm sore and I've positively removed all traces of that encounter, and feet, don't fail me now. Take me as far from here as possible, thank you. Walk! Or run gracefully, damn you!  _Run!_

"Oy! Malfoy, wait up!"

"I'm fine. Leave me be! If you prefer to continue groping each other in public then go away and I'll deny knowing anything about you two disgusting-"

"We aren't groping each other." Then Pansy winks at Weasley. "Yet."

I can feel my skin crawl at her words.

 _This_ is the reason I won't be writing anything that has some stupid lovey-dovey aspect to it. I abhor  _everything_ related to the bloody concept, because romance is just some stupid woman's fancy way of referring to slavery - specifically, the man's. Men who think themselves in love are just brainwashed, hexed with a strong spell, until they are forced to do things they aren't inclined to doing - like thinking about some other person's feelings and-

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Weasley demands.

I blink. "What?"

"You're looking at me like I'm diseased or something," he replies, looking a wee bit insulted.

Interesting. Weasley  _has_ perception. And he  _uses_ it.

Pansy scoffs. "That's the way he always looks at you, love."

Weasley thinks this over and smiles. "Oh. Right. I forgot. Aaaanyway, where are we going, anyway?"

"Flourish and Blotts," I say succinctly.

"Really?" she asks disbelievingly. "What are you going to buy in a bookstore?"

I lift a brow. "What do you think?"

"I know! I know!" Weasley says happily. "You're going to buy - a book!"

Good Lord. I am in the company of a decrepit with a mental capacity of a five-year-old

Hang on. I think I just insulted every five-year-old in the world.

Pansy shoots him a glare before asking, "I  _meant_ what type of book are you going to buy?"

I ponder about this for a moment. If I tell them my true purpose, will they be able to put two and two together and deduce that I'm going to buy a model for my upcoming book? Will they be able to discover for themselves that I'm an aspiring writer - and an excellent one at that - and my dream is to have legions of fans who will write fan fiction and draw fan arts based from what I have written?

I scoff. Probably not. We  _are_ talking about Weasley and Pansy here.

"Autobiography," I finally tell them.

Blank stares met my declaration.

Which just confirms my earlier thoughts.

"Auto-bio-whatnow?" Pansy asks.

"Wait, wait, I know this," Weasley says, concentrating hard. He then snaps his fingers. "I've got it! That, that word you said - that's a muggle contraption, isn't it? Like what we used before, waaay back in second year, when Fred, George, and I had to rescue Harry from his loony relatives, because they locked him up in a room, imagine that, and we had to tie a rope around a-"

"Pansy, for the love of sanity shut him up."

"It was blue... yes, blue, and I was driving it - so cool - and Snape-"

"Why should I? You're the one who got him started!"

"-and then these spiders, huge,  _huge_ spiders, they started creeping towards me and Harry, so I stepped on-"

"Weasley,  _shut up_ and no, that's not it!" I all but shove my words to his face.

He frowns. "But Harry said-"

"Autobiographies aren't just muggle things you oversized buffoon," I tell him loftily. "They are books written by writers that are about their own lives, and not what that nonsense you're saying." I add, as an afterthought, "And Harry is a blathering idiot so don't believe all he says. Or anything he tells you, for that matter."

Again, blank stares.

" _That's_ what that is?" Weasley grunts. "Sounds boring."

I feel insulted, in behalf of us autobiographers in the world. Well, I  _will_ be. "Have you ever read one? Or wait, wrong question: can you actually read?"

"I can," Pansy chimes in, "and I have to say, Ron's right. Sounds  _dreadfully_ boring. What do I care about some weirdo's life? I have a suggestion, though. Since we're going to a bookstore, and we'll be getting married, why don't you buy our gift now?"

Weasley severely frowns. "You want a book as a present?"

Pansy links her hand with his. "Trust me. Once you see  _Kama Sutra_ and  _The Perfumed Garden,_ you'll do, too."

And so we walk on, an excited gait in Pansy's, a bored one in Weasley's, and an elegantly thoughtful one in mine. Their comments made me reflect. Simple-minded folks actually think autobiographies are a dreadful bore? Then... then... even before starting my war, I may have already lost. If I'll write an autobiography, and people are immediately turned off at the very idea - then that means the number of people who will be buying my book will be severely dented! My market will have become horribly limited to incredible intellectual thinkers, and  _those_ people are hard to come by these days!

I gasp. I admit, I have  _not_ thought this scenario possible.

"Malfoy, are you all right? You look awfully pasty."

Pansy hits him on the shoulder. "Idiot. He  _always_ looks pasty."

Weasley thinks this over and smiles. "Oh. Right. I forgot."

I'm too preoccupied to even consider kicking him on the shin.

At that moment, we enter the bookstore, and as Pansy steers Weasley to the more secluded portion of the shop I march to the center aisle and slowly scan over the different areas. I hesitate, even as I spot the autobiographies section. Understandably, I'm having second thoughts.

If not an autobiography, then what will my book be?

"Do you really have to stand there, in the middle of the aisle, or will you let other people pass?"

I roll my eyes heavenwards. Why is it that, of all people,  _of all people_  that I have to encounter-

"Granger. If I didn't know better, I'll say you're stalking me. Oh, wait, I  _do_ know better, so - you're stalking me."

She sniffs. "Let me pass and I'll consider letting you go unharmed."

I grin. "Ha! How, may I ask, will you harm me?" I raise my brow. "And just what type of ill wind would've brought you here, I wonder?"

"I wonder the same thing myself." And, as I have no intention of letting her pass, she marches right by me. But the aisle is so very narrow that I can't help the contact between her hair and my face, and while I mentally brace myself for the stench of death what hit me instead is the smell of - something fruity. Lemon, maybe. Or apples.

And then I realize that I'm actually  _smelling her hair,_ which is completely inappropriate, not to mention  _weird._ I pull back, then all but shove her away. She sends me a look of pure wrath before heading to the reference section of the bookstore without another word.

All right, so I have two choices here: one, go to Weasley and Pansy and catch them doing that illustration on page 73 because Pansy will just totally love that, or, two, go to Granger and annoy her to death. Hers, not mine.

Answer's obvious, because right now I don't want a nasty mental image, thank you.

I slowly creep up to her, just so I can see what type of book she's scanning. I'm curious, all right, and as I am in the crux of a lifechanging dilemma what she's reading may just influence my-

 _Oh_.

_Mwahaha._

"So," I say, enjoying immensely with the way she jumps suddenly, "explain one thing to me: how is it that  _you_ became the assistant head of some runes translating department when it's achingly clear how completely incompetent you are?"

Something flashes in her eyes, and a dull flush erupts on her cheeks. "You are a bastard of the lowest order," she snaps, closing her big tome shut.

I lean on the shelf. "What word do you need help translating this time?"

"I don't need help," she says through clenched teeth. "Especially not-"

I shove my hands in my pockets. I am not offering her help; I'm simply reiterating and letting her realize the fact that I'm superior to her. "Quit being such a proud prude and just give me the damn word!"

She stares at me for long, long seconds. Obviously against her will but being desperate enough, she gets a paper and quill from her bag and writes down a phrase of some cryptic gibberish. I ponder for a moment as my brain analyzes -  _Mesopotamian-no, Persian... or is it Gaelic?_

"So what is it, oh great and most revered one?" she asks snidely.

"I'm getting there," I tell her distractedly. Then it hits me -  _Hellenic!_ I scribble down quite a lengthy passage, look at her, shove the parchment to her, scan the shelf, grab a book, open it on page 3246 and say, "See for yourself, my ingenuity. You can compare my translation to that of these texts and learn that I am indeed great  _and_ revered."

Granger gives me a particularly nasty look, but does as she's told anyway. To my extreme pleasure, her eyes round at the evidence of my vast intellectual prowess. She closes the book with a sharp  _snap._  "All right, I admit you're right."

Ah, beautiful music. "And?"

"And, well-" She purses her lips, then grabs something from her bag. "-here."

I stare at the bag of Galleons in her hand, very much confounded. "What the bloody hell's that for?"

"Well, I have to pay you something," she says, shaking her hand as emphasis.

" _Why?_ "

Granger rolls her eyes. "I'm paid to do this translation," she explains. "I didn't translate it, though, you did, so technically, you deserve to get paid for it, not me."

I look at her through beady eyes. "I'm not taking that."

"Why not? You don't have a job. I'm sure this'll-"

"What, help me?" I snap. " _I don't need your help._ "

And before she gets to wave the money in front of my face again, I leave.

* * *

 

There's only about a few drops of milk left for me, but instead of drinking it I give it to Crookshanks, the cat I all but begrudgingly adopt as my own seeing as it's always by my side instead of it's owner's. Unlike the rest of the world, it actually has sense and good taste. The furry beast licks the milk silly while I rub the sleep from my eyes.

These days, I'm waking up later that I'm accustomed to. Before, I'm usually up before the sun peeks from the clouds - huh,  _artistic license_. Now, seeing as Potter has the side of the apartment with the view of the sunrise, short of barging in unannounced I've no way of witnessing its magnificent splendor.

_Sigh._

Aside from that, I've also written down the problems in my life, namely:

1) Living with Gryffindors  
2) Dealing with Granger every damn day  
3) Busted faucet  
4) Feeding Granger's cat - what does it eat, aside from milk?  
5) Dwindling fortune  
6) Gift for upcoming wedding - no, wait, this isn't my handwriting...  _Pansy!_

The one shining beacon in my life is my book, my autobiography. Once I sell it, I'll regain my millions and move out of this blasted place. It's that simple.

But nothing in this damn life's really that simple, damn it.

Damn it, I'm being all broody and melancholic here! What can be so damn important that some people have to talk about it  _right outside_ my door in obnoxiously loud tones and-

"Keep it down, would you!" I snap, right into the stunned faces of Potter and Granger. "I'm being all broody and melancholic and-"

"Draco! Good to see you, mate. Erm, Hermione has something to tell you. Hermione?" Then Potter all but shoves Granger forward.

Huh. Lemons and apples again.

"Wha-Harry! You told me you'll be the one to-"

"But he's here, so I don't have to-"

"Harry, just-"

"Well what is it you bloody woman? You're wasting my time, you know!" Memories of yesterday assault me, and I rage all over again. I mean, the bloody woman insulted me by offering me payment for my services and-

-yes I'm aware that at some other part of the world that's called 'employment' and-

-well, I'm not working for her, so she can shove her Galleons up her-

"Malfoy," she begins, "you know I hate you and everything you represent and the very sight of you makes me ill but-"

"-you love me? I know."

Potter manages to keep a straight face.

"- _but_ ," she continues, "well, Harry told me that you're, well, somewhat good-"

"No, I told you he's  _very_ good," Potter interjects.

Hmm, interesting that his praises don't change the fact that I still see him as a bespectacled freak of-

"Well, do you want a job as a translator or not?" Granger says in a rush.

-nature.

_What?_

"Tell him something about the job," Potter urges, nudging her.

Granger rolls her eyes and says, "The job's case-to-case basis of course, and you don't have to go to our office - thank God - ow, Harry, stop nudging, all right! But, you know, every now and then I'll drop the papers and you'll just give them to me - or to Harry, yes, to Harry, when you're done."

"Think it through, Malfoy," Potter says. "I think it's a good way to pass time and, you know, earn money, since we don't need your services yet and we can't pay you for not doing something."

"So?" she prods impatiently. "Do you want it or not?"

Well...

I may need more time to think about this. I mean, will my salary include damages incurred from associating with the likes of  _her?_

I open my mouth to tell her that, but the words that spilled out were:

"All right."

Looking at her, I know she's as surprised as I am that I actually accepted.

I'm going to regret this for the rest of my shortened life, I just know it.

Damn you, mouth!


	6. Chapter 6

_Continue to educate yourself on writing and getting published._

Hmm? What? What?

Ah. Right. Of course I shall do that! Writing is, after all, my number one priority. The most important aspect in my life. My first thought as I wake in the morning, and my last as I drift off to sleep. It is my calling, my vocation, my mission here on earth.

Just let me finish this pathetic little piece of runic trash I'm currently translating, and then I'll... I swear I'll...

"If the origin isn't... well  _of course_ it's not, these characters are more cylindrical whereas... wait, they're also quite... no, no, that's not it..." I tap my quill against my chin. "Mid-1800 runes are spherical in nature, so cross out these stupid notes of yours, Granger! I bet these came from 1700. Yes, yes that's it. But then..."

I rub my palm against the back of my neck. Nasty little bugger, this page. A whole lot of cryptic nonsense where some words have translations and some do not - and based from what I've uncovered so far, this freakishly old text is only some ancient recipe for... something. A cure for some hideous illness, probably. Worthless, in my opinion.

Granger better pay me double for this. Or better yet - triple. Or even more than that. The page is with me and I will not yield it to her until I'm paid what I want - until I'm given what I desire.

_Mwahaha._

Evil, indeed thy name is Draco Malfoy.

I pull my sleeves up my arms. "All right, you bastard, there'll be no handsome ransom without a completely translated page, is there? So-"

Three loud, obnoxious knocks interrupt my reverie just then, and I glance at the door, confused. Who can that be? I know only three people who, annoyingly, always seem to manifest themselves in my territory without me wanting them to. Take Potter, for instance. He always uses his one-loud-knock-then-yell technique to announce his freakish presence. Pansy usually scratches the surface of my door with her freakishly long nails, and Weasley, the freakin'  _idiot,_  often forgets that I'm the reluctant owner of this place and apparates in without warning. Thank goodness I no longer prance around naked. Imagine if he-

No, no, I'd rather you don't, thank you.

So, judging from this mental comparison, there's only one answer as to what is the identity of this person currently behind my door. The person who, may I add, I'm currently ignoring as I pretend to ponder on and think about this dilemna.

"Malfoy!" Three prude-like knocks. "Open this door, now."

I snicker elegantly. As if I'll do any-

"I know you're in there. I heard you snort!"

I gasp. I do  _not_... and for her to implicate that I-

"Open this damn door  _now_  or I swear you'll regret it!"

I glare at the door, and mentally hack the person behind it to pieces. Let her try all her tricks; there's nothing in this damned world she can do that will force me to open the door for-

_BAM_

-her.

I stare at my door... the one that's now lying dead on the floor. Then I look at the witch behind it all and my vision starts to darken and this strange mechanical voice starts chanting in my head, saying  _killkillkill_ and then I, I just-

"Oh calm down.  _Reparo._ " A strange wheezing sound fills my puny flat as the door reattaches itself to the hinges. She tucks her wand back to her robes and looks at me. "There. So, where's the translation?"

Oh she is one sick, twisted, demented-

Granger rolls her eyes. "Yes, yes, I'm all that - the translation? Where is it?"

"It's not yet done," I inform her using my crispiest voice. Or something to that effect. "Where's Potter? Why isn't he playing mailman? What unfortunate circumstances brought  _you_ here, unwanted, uncalled for, un-"

"What?" she shrieks. "It's not yet finished?" Granger crosses her arms. "I knew it, I knew it. I shouldn't have... I even gave you my notes to quicken things up! And to think you pride yourself for being the premiere-"

I breathe deeply to quell the rising tide of anger that threatens to drown me in its grip. "First of all, I do not pride myself for anything, it's just that I  _am_ grand and great and gorgeous and..." She rolls her eyes again, and I can tell that she's mad as hell, so I continue, "god-like,  _and_  for your information, your notes? Absolutely worthless. I think I lost valuable time just trying to disprove each one."

For a moment, her mouth hangs open and her eyes glaze over, and happily I return to my work.

"My... notes?" Her voice trembles a bit, making me feel all fuzzy and warm and  _evil_. "You  _dare_ tell me that my notes are-"

"Oh I dare, all right. Make no mistake about it, woman." I all but shove the page to her face as I stand. "How in the name of all things bright and wonderful can you call these runes spherical? Do you see anything remotely spherical in a text that looks like several boxes stacked together? No, Draco, of course not. Do you know that these are closer to the 1700 era than the 1800 you wrote here? Oh, Draco, I'm sorry, but I'm such an idiot that I-"

"Give me that." She snatches the page from my hand and looks at it closely.

"It's an ancient recipe for something. Medicine, most likely. Maybe it can cure stupidity." I smile benignly at her. "Thank your lucky stars, Granger. There's hope for you yet."

Quite suddenly, she bursts into mad chuckles that has me gnashing my teeth. "Oh Malfoy. Truly you amuse me," she says snidely. Then she pokes me and says, "You idiot. Don't you know there  _aren't_ any recorded usage of runes in the 1700s?"

What the hell is she saying? "The hell there isn't! You're just making that up, you twisted little-"

"Check your books. There's none." Her voice drips poison honey. "I guess you'll have to start again." She then shoves the paper at my manly chest.

"You think I'll take your word for it? Ha! I think not!"

"Then don't think! Look at your references from whatever place in hell you get your books!"

"When I prove that I'm right and you're wrong, you'll be paying me triple for this," I snarl at her.

She pokes me again and says, " _If,_ Malfoy,  _if._ And  _when_ you prove to yourself just how much an egotistical bastard you are, then you'll be doing a month's amount of work for free."

"Deal." I put my hand out.

"Deal." She takes it readily.

And at this point, Weasley and Pansy apparate in.

"Is there something you want to tell us?" Pansy asks, smiling rather evilly at us. "Say... something about you two?"

Granger and I hastily let go of each other.

Pansy taps Weasley on his arm. "I guess I should start making changes in the seating-"

"Oh please God NO," Weasley moans. He sits on the couch, cradling his abrormally red head in his abnormally large hands. "Not the flags again! Anything but the flags!"

"What flags?" I ask, earning his apoplectic look.

"Seating arrangements. That's why we're here. We're informing you of your designated places." She whips up a chart of some sort where tiny flags of green and red are pasted. "We can't just have anyone sit anywhere or it'll be like Ginny's wedding. Remember that? Ugh," Pansy shudders. "What an utter disaster. People were just roaming around like barbarians and-"

Having not attended the said wedding and due to the fact that I don't care, I keep silent.

"So, who do you think we should transfer? Draco or-"

"No, no transferring!" Granger squeals. She approaches Weasley and tugs at his sleeve. "Ron, Ron, promise me you'll-"

"Talk to her," he says, pointing at Pansy who is busily making notes. "I'm not looking at those flags again. Damned annoying pieces of sh-"

"-from table nine to six..." She takes one red flag and puts it on the other table, "and we could switch Millicent with Draco, I think-"

"No you don't," I say loftily. "Seating arrangements are nothing to me. I sit wherever I choose." Casually, I slide an idle look at Granger. "If I so decide to annoy you to death on that day then no amount of chairs will stop me, mark my words."

She takes three deep breaths, then says in a rush, "Finish this thing by tomorrow or you're fired!" Then Granger whirls around and gets her arse out of my flat.

 _Finally_.

"You do know that you have to follow my seating arrangement or there'll be hell to pay, right?" Pansy informs me in her shrillest tone.

"You do know that I don't care, right?" I inform her in my haughtiest tone.

"You're working for Hermione?" Weasley asks me in his stupidest tone. "Since when?"

"Last week," I answer, returning to my chair. "Since she's incompetent in her job she asked me for help."

"Really?" He stares at me, his eyes wide. "Hermione asked you for help?"

"What's her job, again?" Pansy asks.

"Translating Ancient Runes." I smile evilly. "Which happens to be  _my_ forte."

"Really? Translating Ancient Runes is  _your_ -"

I cast a look at him. "Harry Potter is a bespectacled freak of nature."

"Really? Harry Potter is a-"

"Stop repeating my words, Weasel."

"Really? I'm... wait, I'm not repeating your words!" At my glare he insists, "I'm not!"

Hopeless.

"Don't you think working with her's going to cost you... say, your life?" Pansy says, lifting her attention off her chart. "She hates you, you know. Enough to... oh I don't know, slit your throat when you're not looking?"

I lift my brow. "Would you happen to know why?"

"Well, she's hated you since first year," Weasley answers. "Who didn't? You were such a slimy, smarmy git."

"Still is," Pansy says.

"I know that," I snap.

"I think she even built a little shrine for you back then."

That, I didn't know. "Really?"

He nods. "Every now and then she threw dung bombs at a piece of cardboard with your name on it. Said it helps sometimes."

"Isn't that just the sweetest thing," Pansy mutters, lifting a brow at me.

That, I didn't  _need_ to know. "Thank you, Weasley, for that unsolicited bit of information on how you Gryffindors worshipped me," I say, waving off what he revealed. I reread the parts I've already translated before I say, "I understand her hate of me back then. What annoys me is that she seems to hold grudges even up to now. Isn't she too old for that? Even  _I_ told her so."

"Affected, aren't you, Draco?"

I made it a point to ignore her singsong tone. I drum my fingers on the table, trying hard to pinpoint exactly what I'm feeling. "Ever since the war... a lot of people's view of me has changed. I mean, look at you and Potter. After the war you don't hate me as much, which is a shame, because if you did then you would've stayed the hell away from me and-"

"I think it's more of her seeing you as a threat," Pansy tells me.

I pause. "A threat?"

"Really? Hermione sees Malfoy as a-"

"Oh shut it!" She smacks Weasel across the forehead before turning to me. "I mean, you just said it yourself, Ron and Potter just don't hate you anymore. Maybe Granger thinks that you'll... I don't know, take her place as part of the Golden Trio, or something."

I screw my face into an expression of sheer disgust. "What an atrocious mental image, Parkinson!"

"Hey!" Weasley says,  _finally_ taking offense over something I said. "What's wrong with-"

"Well, that's just my opinion," Pansy says. "Maybe you should ask her." She studies her nails. "That is, before one of you kills the other."

Which  _will_ happen, you know.

Probably sooner than you think.

* * *

 

If there's anyone in the world who has the unfortunate fate of knowing the absurdities, stupidities, and intricacies of one Hermione Granger, it'll have to be her mother. Or her father.

But since I've no plans of meeting either one, I go to the next person in my extremely short list - Harry Potter.

I would've asked Ron Weasley but, unfortunately, he and Pansy Parkinson are currently engaged in lewd activities that I  _didn't_ witness, thank you. I didn't happen to apparate in on the exact moment that they were on the dining table in their kitchen, with several plates and glasses broken on the floor, which they must've knocked aside in their desperate haste to use the damn table. I didn't see them with legs entangled and limbs flailing about and- I  _didn't_ see anything, I solemnly declare. No, nothing at all!

So here I am, at Potter's doorstep. I knock at his door, and wait a few seconds before launching into another set of my sophisticated proclamation of my presence.

When the door still fails to open, I take my wand out, ready to blast the damn door to pieces...

...only Potter pulls it open, just in time to spoil my fun. Like he always does. Like he's some person whose sole existence and purpose gravitates around inflicting emotional and moral pain on-

"You're giving me the evil eye," he states. "Why?"

I reluctantly tuck my wand back to my robes. "There's no need for you to know," I answer, breezing into his dingier apartment and noting, for the nth time, that I have better taste at everything than he does. I turn to face him, but an internal war is raging inside me. Should I ask him already? Or do I veil my intention by asking him some other question that leads to my original question, so that he will not think that I came here just to ask  _one_ question when, in fact, I could have asked dozen other more pertinent questions? With that in mind I say, "I know that you are pathetic and all that, but I will risk asking you this: do you happen to have any references on Ancient Runes?"

He blinks at me. "You're the second one to ask me that," Potter says, forming one giant eyebrow on his forehead.

"Second?" I repeat. Then certainty dawns upon me. "You mean Granger, don't you."

He nods. "I told her, why ask me? I'm not the expert on Ancient Runes. So, I'm going to say the same thing to you: I'm not the expert on Ancient Runes, you are." Potter scratches his unkempt hair. "Maybe you should ask her, though."

I lift my chin and gaze down at him imperiously. "And risk her slitting my throat whilst I'm not looking? No, thank you."

"Whatever." He closes the door and charges to the kitchen. "Coffee?"

"Without a doubt," I answer, following him. I watch as he pours coffee into two cups, then grabs a milk carton and-

"Nooo!" I cry out. Startled, he drops the carton and looks at me. "I mean, no, no milk on my coffee, you moron." I grab my cup and glare at him. "Desecrater," I hiss.

Potter sighs and says, "Fine." After pouring milk and adding two -  _two!_  - spoonfuls of sugar, he takes his coffee outside. I trail quietly behind him.

He sighs again, and defensively I ask, "What?"

"You have an ulterior motive," he tells me flatly.

"I have a  _what_?"

"Don't pretend you don't," Potter says. "You come here, you drink my coffee, you follow me around... you have something to ask me, don't you? Admit it."

I raise a brow. "What if I'm here just because I wanted your company?" At his astonished look, I burst into mad chuckles. "Ha! As if, Potter! Yes, I do have an ulterior motive. Yes, I do want to ask you something." So, Potter  _has_ enough sense in him to sense this things. Interesting.

And a bit surprising, may I add.

He sighs for the third time and says, "What is it?"

I look at my coffee, noting the eternal blackness that dwells within it. Then I bring it to my lips and sip, enjoying the tang of caffeine, the hint of deep bitterness, the richness and fullness of-

"Malfoy!"

"Right. Um..." This is it, then. There's no turning back. "Potter. I want you to answer me honestly. Why... why does Granger hate me so much?"

He blinks at me, his eyes wide behind those ugly glasses of his. Then he asks, "Why do you hate her?"

I scoff. "Because she's insane," I answer readily. "Everyone knows that. She's hard to work with. She's insufferable, she thinks she's so smart, she looks down on everyone and she grates on my nerves every damn day, she doesn't comb her hair, and-"

"Funny, she says the same thing about you," he tells me, smiling annoyingly. "Word for word."

"Wha- that's not true!" I say vehemently. "I comb my hair!"

He raises his brow and waits for me to continue.

I stare back, defiance radiating from every beautiful pore in my body. I say nothing.

"Why does it bother you that she hates you?"

Why, indeed. "Maybe it's because I'm used to everyone worshipping me," I snap. "And, and, well..."

"Face it, Draco," Potter speaks softly, "you're used to the fact that most people have already  _forgiven_ you for the past. Hermione hasn't yet, and it's bugging you. Maybe you want her to forgive you as well."

"I never said I wanted anyone's forgiveness," I say loudly, my hands balling to fists. "Least of all, hers."

"But you got ours, anyway."

I look away. Damn you, Harry Potter. "Let's say your pathetic theory is correct. Is that it? She hates me because of the things I did to her back in Hogwarts?  _That's it?_ "

He's silent for a while. "Like I said before, maybe it's better to ask her."

And I will. Mark my words. I will risk my neck in my eternal quest for the truth!

...I think.

I cross my arms. "So, you're saying that my coming here is pointless? That you won't tell me anything beyond what I already know?"

Potter shrugs. "Yeah."

You stupid, pathetic, bespectacled freak of-

"Yes, yes, I'm all that - now can you go? I have to change. Unless you want to stay and see me-"

And out I go, before I see anything I'll just have to gouge my eyes for later.


	7. Chapter 7

_Talent is only a part of the equation. You also need persistence, humility, and a sense of honor._

"Hear that, Mugshots?" I say, scratching the cat behind his ears. "Talent plus persistence plus humility  _plus_ sense of honor equals Draco Malfoy. But everybody knows that already, right?"

Mugshots blinks at me and proceeds to lick his... unmentionable parts.

Right.

So! Yes. I've renamed Granger's bloody cat Mugshots instead of... what was that again? Crookshields? Crankshanks? Crankshields? Eh, well, whatever stupid name Granger gave him, I've changed it. Mugshots is a perfectly perfect name for a cat, and since he stays with me longer than he actually is with Granger I think he's used to it by now. I've learned that during the direst of times Mugshots is a perfect companion, as he silently agrees to everything I say. We've forged an unbreakable bond, see. It'll take more than walls and a potentially psychotic mistress to keep him away from me!

"Now, if only I can teach you something, like... roll over, Mugshots! Play dead, Mugshots! Sit down and edit my first draft, Mugshots!" Hmm. Can I do that? Well, he  _is_  intelligent. Maybe I shall start with-

_Pop!_

-teaching the cat how to kill unwanted visitors.

I can see it now - Weasley apparates, Mugshots goes in for the kill... Mugshots scores! Weasley loses an eye! Woohoo! The crowd goes  _wild!_

Ah. Good images.

I raise my brow as I see Pansy standing absolutely still after apparating. Alone. I'm quite in shock, since I usually see Weasley with her, before her, or after her. When five seconds passed and still no sight of Weasley assaulted me, I begin to get a nagging feeling that this meeting will be unusual.

And yes, my precognitions are always correct.

"Haven't you learned by now that I do not condone apparating into my personal space without my personal permission?" I say, walking to the door to let the cat out. After Mugshots leaves I turn around and see Pansy still standing absolutely  _still_ after apparating. "What's wrong, Pansy? Forgot to take your medication or-"

Then she hastily wipes her eyes and turns, letting me behold her make-up-less beauty in all its glory. Which isn't much, let me tell you. But... hold on... "Pansy..." I started softly.

She sniffs and rubs her nose with a tissue. "What?"

What's the matter with her? "Your mascara's running," I tell her helpfully. "You look hideous."

She then throws at me her disgustingly mushy tissue and deposits herself on my plush sofa, grunting all the while. Pansy sniffs again.

"Why do you look hide- wait, stupid question. Why is your mascara running?" I ask, sitting at a safe distance from her and her bacteria-filled mucus.

Pansy unelegantly blows her nose and spits, "The wedding's off."

What?

"What?"

Pansy throws at me her infamous glare-of-doom and repeats, "The wedding's  _off_!"

I rub my neck. What am I suppose to say in this type of situation? Yes I realize that I'm less-evil and all that but goodness doesn't just pop into my consciousness every now and then, thank Salazar! "Why?" I ask. Then it dawns upon me.  _Of course_! The answer is simple, Draco! "You've seen Weasley without his trousers on!"

I don't understand why Pansy looks at me like this. Truly perplexing. "Of course I already saw him without trousers you idiot!" she screeches, her claws poised to gouge my eyes out.

I move away. "But why else would you-"

"We had a fight," she sniffs.

"Ah. Say no more." I stand. "You've discovered that Weasley's having an affair with Potter, haven't you." I nearly giggled with fiendish delight. Why, that certainly explained a hell lot about-

Pansy blinks at me. " _What?"_

"Or! Weasley's having an affair... with Granger!" As I say the words, a curious, boiling feeling of hatred engulfs me. If I ever see Weasley again, why I'm going to mutilate his bloody-

Pansy blinks at me. " _What?"_

"Or! Weasley's having an affair with-"

"Weasley's not having an affair!" Pansy shouts.

I pause. "Ah. Say no more." I look at her and proudly proclaim, " _You're_ having an affair with-"

"I'm... you... bloody..." Pansy inhales so much air her nostrils flare to twice their size. Scary. "No one's having an affair, all right! No one. Ron doesn't have the balls to do that to me! Ha! If he tries to even  _think_ about having an affair then ... I... I'll castrate-"

"Then what the bloody hell did you fight about?"

Pansy sinks further into my sofa. "He wanted seven," she sighs. "I wanted six."

Seven or six what? "Children?"

"No! Please. We're normal people," she scoffs. "We'll have more than that!"

Erm. What else do I know about weddings and numbers? "Godparents? Bridesmaids? Goddamnit Parkinson why am I even guessing?"

"Because I'll tear your eyes out if you don't listen? And no, no! We didn't fight about that! What, you think we're shallow people? Of all the nerve, Draco Malfoy! Have you looked into the mirror lately?"

I curb my strong urge to strangle her. I'm the forgiving type of person, see. "Tell me or I swear to the esence of evilness I will beat you to death with-"

"People!" she shrieks.

What? "How the hell can I beat you with  _that_?"

"Yes! People! We fought over people." Pansy stands, nearly quivering with anger as she does. "He wanted seven people in a single table. Seven people! What is he, mad? I told him, what if the six of them partnered up, what about the seventh man? He'll be the odd one out! So I said six people is better. Quite clever of me, right? Well, no! The stupid idiot didn't think so! He insisted seven. I said six. He said seven. I insisted six. We can't decide, so we called off the wedding." She sinks on the sofa again and bursts to hysterical tears. "Oh. Oh. Oh. Thanks to that red-haired pinprick of a man my life is  _ruined_."

Sometimes in life, you get a single moment where clarity becomes your shining beacon in a field of never ending darkness. In my case, that clarity came with a blinding headache when I realized I endured four and a half minutes of drama and tears and all because of what? Some pathetic piece of reason that doesn't even have enough sense! "Pansy..." I say, lowering my voice to make it as smooth as an angel's lullaby, "I say this as a friend who wants nothing but the best for you. You and Ron should patch things up. You love each other. You should get married."

"Really?" she asks, on the verge of tears again. Pansy even smiles a little now.

"Yes. Really. You know why?" I smile angelically, and touch her hair. "Because I know of no other people who could be so stupid to call off a wedding because of... numbers! Bloody hell woman! Do you even examine your words before they come out of your mouth? Or is it a given talent that when you open your mouth stupidity comes out?"

Pansy's face freezes into an expression that's torn between murder and disbelief. "It's not just the arrangement!" she screams. "There's the food, the plates, the decorations, the-you don't understand!"

"Damn right I don't! I will not tolerate any second more of this absurdity!" I point to the door. "Get out! Get out! Get out!"

Pansy glares at me. "You think my problem is so worthless, don't you?"

"No, Parkinson - I don't think your problem's worthless. I think it's stupid!" I point to the other, and repeat, "Out!"

"Ha! Let's just see when you're the one getting married!"

"Not bloody likely! I'll  _never_  be stupid enough to get married!" I point to the door. "Out!"

"Let's just see about that!" And out Pansy goes with a loud pop.

The bloody nerve of these people to just come in out of nowhere and bother me with their problems! Why, I ought to-

"Say, Malfoy, I need some scissors, do you have-"

Potter pauses as I turn towards him. He has undoubtedly seen a vision of his death in my pale, clear, silver, ice-like, crystalline, molten gray/grey eyes.

" _Ouuuuuuttttt_!"

* * *

 

After a few minutes, I'm calm. I'm the essence of calmness and serenity. I'm the epitome of peace and love. The hearts of those I touch blossom with the beauty and strength of inner freedom.

I go out of my flat, scissors in hand. I vaguely remember Potter dropping by to borrow them, but for the life of me I do not understand why it is that he has left so suddenly. And without the courtesy of excusing himself! Barbarism, indeed thy name is Harry Potter.

I'm about to knock on his door when I hear noises coming from the outside. I think I recognize one of the voices... but who the hell is-

"Well, here we are," Granger says, opening the hall door and smiling at someone.

I peek out, and see this... how shall I describe this nonentity? Nondescript face, bland height, dull aura. Forgettable. Easily blends with the surroundings. Lost in a haze of faces... you get my point.

"I... can I walk you to your door?"

No you bloody cannot! Leisurely, I walk to the door and announce my presence by way of an elegant cough. Instantly, Granger's nice visage disappears, leaving a murderer's face behind. "What are you-"

"Granger! Luv!" I say, coming to stand beside her. I smile at the entity currently occupying our doorstep. Hmm. Black hair, black eyes, black lips - pathetic. I look at her again. "I thought you'd never get here. How was your day?"

She almost hyperventilates in her anger.

Nondescript entity merely scrunches his brows. "Um-hi. I'm-"

"Oh. You brought a friend!" I place my hand over his shoulder, purposely hovering the sharp tip of my scissors near his pulse point. "Draco Malfoy. You know,  _the_ Draco Malfoy, killer extraordinaire? Person who saw the light before he committed an eternal error, betrayed his whole beliefs, embraced a whole new perspec-"

"On second thought, Greg, better walk me to my door." And she shoots at me an extremely irritated glance before grabbing -  _grabbing!_  - the nondescript entity's hand.

Of course, being a good person, I follow. Merlin knows what murderous fate will befall the innocent nonentity at the hands of Granger! "So.  _Greg._  That's your name, isn't it? What a grand coincidence, I also have a friend named Greg. Well,  _had_  anyway. You know, Gregory Goyle? Shame he had to die at my hands and all."

Granger whirls around to face me. "You- you didn't kill Goyle!" she spits.

"Oh, I didn't?" I blink at her, innocence radiating from my pores. "Well. It's hard to keep track these days. Sometimes a black fog still engulfs me and I kill the next nondescript entity crossing my path - say, Greg, you don't happen to have a family who'll miss you, do you?" I smile at him.

He tugs at his collar - who the bloody hell wears collars nowadays anyway? - and says, "Well, Hermione, I... better go-"

"No, Greg, you promised me you'll have tea with me, remember?" she says through gritted teeth.

What? "Oh, how sweet of you, Greg! Say, have you heard of the fate that befell Theodore Nott? They say his neck got cut by dull scissors and- well will you look at that, I happen to carry scissors with me-"

"That's enough, Malfoy!" Granger pushes her door open and all but shoves the nondescript entity inside. "What are you even doing here?"

I shrug. "Well, I came just to make sure that you two will have none of those unscrupulous activities - and I  _will_ hear you, you know, with me living beneath your flat and all-"

"We will not-" She pauses, breathing heavily between her teeth. "That's none of your business!"

"Of course it's my business, this is unfortunately where I live!" I return heatedly.

"Ah... Miss Granger?" Nondescript entity slowly creeps toward her.

"What?" we both snap. Cue exchanging of glares-of-death.

"I think... your cat..."

And I see Mugshots, his hair standing, his teeth and claws bared, slowly creep towards nondescript entity. My cat looks about ready to kill.

Mwahaha.

"What the-Crookshanks!"

"Good boy, Mugshots!"

We look at each other.

"Did... did you just call my cat  _Mugshots?_ "

"What the bloody hell kind of name is Crookshanks?"

"I happen to think 'Crookshanks' is a perfectly perfect name for a cat!"

"So is Mugshots!"

"No it isn't! And why are you renaming my cat anyway?"

"Because Mugshots is a better name for a cat!"

She crosses her arms. "Says who?"

I smirk. "Says me."

"Miss-"

"Shush!"

"Shut up!"

"My cat is my property and you have no right renaming him!"

I cross my arms. "Ha! Have you looked at his belly lately? Yes! Fifty percent of his fatness came from my food, ergo, his fat belongs to  _me!_ "

She shakes her head. "I can't believe I'm having this discussion with you! I better... Greg, let's..." Granger pauses, looks over her shoulder, and frowns. "Greg? Greg?"

Mugshots looks psychotically content licking something off his face.

I smirk. "I think Mugshots just ate your friend. Good boy, Mugshots."

The cat comes to me and rubs himself all over my leg.

"Well, thank you Draco Malfoy for chasing away my guest!" Granger screams, pivoting on her heel and marching towards her door.

"You're bloody right. You  _should_ be thankful! Even Mugshots can tell how boring that nondescript nonentity was."

She rolls her eyes. "Crookshanks, come here, boy!"

Mugshots just stares at her.

" _Crookshanks_ , come here!"

"I think he likes me better," I say with a grand smile. "Don't you,  _Mugshots_?"

The cat purrs.

She bites her lips then closes the door with a loud  _bang!_

"Ha." I crouch to scratch Mugshots behind his ears. "I've always known we'll make a great team. Now, here's how to attack when Weasley apparates in... and later I'll teach you how to edit..."


	8. Chapter 8

_For many people, journals have become the equivalent of a trusted confidante._

Ah. No truer words have been uttered. Which is why I, Draco Malfoy, have always kept within my bedside a small notebook that serves as a witness to my many hardships and failures, to my triumphs and conquests. It is an integral part of my existence, one that, if necessary, I will gladly trade a life for.

So long as that life isn't mine.

My quill quivers in my delicate grasp, the tip barely making an impression on the surface. I bite my lower lip in consternation, and my hesitation is evident by my reluctance to actually put my genius into words. No, I'm not suffering from writer's block, thank you - why, I just composed another proof of my brilliance, simply titled  _The Wonder of Me_  and... well, you can probably guess the essence of that work. Aptly titled, is it not? First version and it is ready to be printed. Behold my creativity and genuflect before me, mere slaves of the written word!

But I digress.

And put away my quill in disgust.

This is most vexing. The truth of the matter is, I simply cannot get myself to actually write down on the surface of my journal. Yes, I am aware that my handwriting will only enhance the beauty and elegance of the paper, my work will only make the material more valuable, etc etc, but for the life of me... well. I just  _can't._

I have owned this journal for a long time, and yet I have not written a single word on it. A paradox it indeed is.

What? I'm sure all the other writers also own damn journals that collect dust somewhere in the vicinity of their own houses just because it is too precious to actually be used! We are  _writers,_  for Slytherin's sakes. We have every damn right to be quirky!

I sigh, and of their own volition my eyes stray towards the small stack of paper neatly arranged at my desk. If only I own some of the worthless pieces of trash paper Granger fondly refers to as 'temporary employment contract' - it will definitely make writing easier. One wrong word - nay, a simple mistake in punctuation! - and out the paper goes. Sadly, I cannot do the same with parchments. Or with journals. Or with everything  _else_ that is not cheap in the market. I mean, am I the only living wizard bothered by how expensive things are nowadays? It is ridiculous! Ludicrous!  _Obscene!_

This is what I hate about being not as rich as I was before. These little things begin to nag at me, to taunt me with their beauty and mock me with their worth. These occurrences that had absolutely no value to me whatsoever during my days of wealth and manly glory have become quite burdensome now that I am in my days of less wealth but still quite manly glory.

Yes, I am aware that I have become quite a sensitive soul with a poetic streak that will undoubtedly endear me to the rest of the female population.

Nay, they will be positively  _obsessed_ with me now.

How often does a person grace the planet with such humility and perfectness that I happen to possess?

But I digress. Again.

With Mugshots bribed with ridiculous amounts of food just to stay inside his mistress's flat, my own place feels empty, and yet this emptiness enables me to bask in my newfound sensitivity and concentrate on my art. And I am. Concentrating, that is. But I still can't get myself to write anything down.

I close my precious journal - just in time to hear a popping sound emanate within a few feet from me. Cue the rolling of my eyes. Truly, one does get quite used to the fact that some people - some people named  _Pansy_ , that is - are just ejected from the womb fully grown with no small amount of self-centeredness and selfishness and all around self-love.

I mean, some people are just  _too_ self-involved.

Why can't she be like... oh I don't know,  _me_?

Haven't she heard of the term selflessness? I mean, who even cares if she's actually hurting - or possibly dying - inside? Who cares if she needs a companion now more than ever?

" _I_  certainly don't care," I say aloud, even before she gets to open her mouth. "Today I am dedicating my time to myself, and I've no intention of sharing whatsoever with the likes of  _you,_  Parkinson. So go away, leave me be, bring your ugly self and be away from here, if you please."

There. That sounded a nice-enough sending.

She merely glares at me, her fangs sharpened and ready. "Shut up, you self-centered piece of egotistic arse. And no, I won't go away. Not yet." Pansy smiles, reminding me of blood-sucking newts spotting a bloody carcass somewhere off the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Ugh. "I have dinner plans for us."

My ears perk up. "You do?"

"Yes."

"Where?" I ask suspiciously. After all, she may well be planning to do something dastardly to me, and is taking me somewhere to -  _gasp!_ \- ravish me.

What? Somebody tried that once already! I am just protecting my delectable dignity!

"Somewhere your current budget cannot afford," Pansy fairly sings while batting her fake eyelashes.

I curb my desire to throttle her - after all, we  _are_ talking about a free expensive meal here.

And just as that thought has crossed my mind, another follows closely in its wake.

Blast it all, now I sound like a poor, pathetic, pitiful...  _Potter._

_Ugh._

What a terrifying thought!

"You do realize that I can just say no," I tell her haughtily. "In fact, I  _am._ For evil's sakes, Parkinson, I am a  _Malfoy!_  I have no right to be homely, desperate, and ugly like Potter! And I certainly won't degrade myself by going out with you like Weasley did!"

Take that, Parkinson! Take that, Parkinson's money!

"Oh Draco, truly you underestimate me." Pansy checks her fingernails. "You do realize that, if you say no, I can just tell the world about you - a _Malfoy_  - actually writing down bits and pieces of... what do you call them? Drabbles, poetry... oh, whatever you  _writers_ call those bunch of words all mushed together." She shrugs delicately, then picks up the journal from my numbed hands. "I'm sure you have something written in here right now."

I sit perfectly still. The hair at the back of my fragile neck spring to alertness and naked  _fear_.

This is  _not..._ I mean, I have been most discreet! I have been elusive and mysterious and secretive about my dastardly affair with the written language!

And then... it hits me.

A typical Slytherin ploy, this is. I cannot believe I actually- to think I was the one who  _invented_  this strategy!

Leisurely taking my time, I walk to the window and take a peak at the outside world... one that still is blissfully unaware of my genius and manly glory. Then I glance at Pansy. "I don't know what you're talking about." I am quite proud of my innocent tone, really.

She grins, reminding me of flesh-eating salamanders seeing a wounded, snotty ickle first-year. "Oh, want some evidence, do you? 'Oh smelly rat, smelly rat, what furry feet you've got! To possess such feet as yours, must be the worst curse to a lot!"

My jaw drops to the floor. My masterpiece...  _An Ode to a Smelly Rat!_  On a mouth as big as hers!

"'And your tail so long and hairy, and ears triangular and itchy-"

" _Twitchy_  you demented little-"

Pansy and I stare at one another in stunned silence.

No.

NO.

This is not happening.

This is NOT happening.

But as I watch Pansy collapse, guffawing quite obscenely, the reality of the situation nearly cripples me.

 _Someone_ knows my secret.

Someone  _knows_  my secret.

Someone knows  _my_ secret.

And that someone just  _has_ to be the person currently emitting inhuman laughter on my floor.

Oh, cruel, cruel world! Why do you always pick on kind-hearted, pure, eminently good people such as I? I am not ready yet! My works are not yet set for printing! And on a mouth as open and wide and vulgar as Pansy's, I may as well climb every mountain, flow on every stream, and follow every rainbow to shout out, "I am Malfoy! Hear me  _write!"_

I sigh. Admittedly, I can recognize defeat when it nearly deafens me with its animalistic shrieks.

"All right, you ugly- I mean, Pansy. Pansy  _dearest._  Pansy the most..." I grit my teeth lest I spout positive adjectives for her, "savage.  _All right_! What the hell am I going to do - aside from murder, poison and maim, of course - to keep you and your big, vulgar mouth shut?"

She rises elegantly, and her face is lit with such a wide, hungry smile that reminds me of Crabbe when he beholds an uncooked, still-pecking-seeds-from-the-ground turkey.

Oh, cruel, cruel,  _cruel_  world.

I can just throttle you right now...

...If only you had a neck, damn it.

* * *

 

"Smile, Draco. Otherwise, the people around may think you're not enjoying yourself."

I stab my piece of tender, delicious meat with too much unnecessary vehemence. My small pile of creamed, luscious vegetables doesn't escape my murderous wrath. "What makes you think I  _am_?"

Pansy's smile twitches. "Because I said so. Now  _smile_ for me, you writer you."

I smile, ergo, bare my perfect set of pearly whites, which has the effect of making the elderly witches on the far right of the room swoon with girlish, gigglish delight.

But Pansy is far from praising my perfect set of pearly whites. She seems to be looking for something, as her eyes always stray towards the door.

I am  _outraged_. No person has any right to  _not_ bask in my presence! They cannot, for I am utterly delectable!

"Pansy,  _dear_ , are you waiting for someone?" I ask, as I smother my piece of tender, delicious meat with ranch sauce.

She flips her hair and says, quite unconvincingly, "Of course  _not._ "

Then it hits me.

Because the person who Pansy is  _not_ waiting for is currently walking towards the empty table beside ours.

And, look! Weasley actually has a date? Now, who in their right mind would actually-

Wait the bloody minute.

" _Granger_?" I utter aloud.

"Parkinson!" Weasley gasps. In three seconds, he is standing by our table - not surprising, considering his abnormal legs. His eyes stray from me to Pansy and back again. "Draco! What are you two doing here?" he bellows, his ears turning a sickening shade of purple.

Right, Weasley. I can see your tonsils, you freakishly-built brute.

"We're eating, in case your eyes are too  _stupid_ to notice it," Pansy fairly snarls.

"You're... you two are... eating together? Why? Why?  _Why_?"

Granger taps him sharply on his arm. "Ron, shush!" she whispers fiercely, looking around. "People are staring!"

Pansy raises her brow, a sly smile spreading on her face. "What's this, Ronniekins? Having a date with dear  _Hermione_ , aren't we? Where are you going to get the money to pay for it, I wonder? Or, wait." She focuses her attention on Granger. "Ah, I know. You two are going to wash dishes after you eat. And, look! She's even dressed for it."

I curb the strong urge to kick her senseless. Instead I say, "Play fair, Pansy. They might not be staying here, anyway."

Granger regards me in surprise. Perhaps because my tone is not as evil as usual?  _Gasp! Horror of horrors!_ "Actually, we are."

"Yes," Weasley repeats unnecessarily. "We are."

And he plops messily down his chair, glaring evilly and doing little impressions of throttling necks with his hands.

Granger bites her lip, shakes her head, and sits down on the other chair.

So, there we are, the four of us having just the grandest time of our lives. I can actually hear the rusty, unused wheels turning in Weasley's head as he glares at me, unquestionably imagining the gruesome things he will do to my beautiful body. I can tell, because I've often seen that look on many people before.

I mean, one  _does_  get used to often being the object of obsession and grisly thoughts.

Pansy... well. There's no doubt she's also murdering Granger in her dirty, perverted little mind. In a more creative, bloodier way, of course.

So, instead of thinking such trivial things like life and death I focus my attention on my free, expensive food, sneaking glances every so often at Granger and Weasley, who have managed to order their food by now.

The sight of them together makes me  _sick._ It should be outlawed! Prohibited! Banned from the public eye, for the sight of them together is an assault to all things bright and beautiful!

"Say aaaah, Drakie-drakie," Pansy suddenly shrieks, holding a spoon with an overflowing amount of soup on it.

I stare at the spoon, the dripping soup, then at her. "I beg your pardon," I say haughtily. "I am not an inf-mffllffff-!"

By now she has pushed the spoon to my tightly closed lips. "Say aaahh, Drakie-love!" she repeats, this time with a matching killing glare.

Of their own volition, my eyes stray towards the other table. Weasley is nearly purplish with rage, and Granger...

Well.

Is she actually glaring at Pansy?

"Draco, if you don't open your freakin' lovely mouth I will shove this spoon up your delectable ar-"

"That's it!" Weasley shoots to his feet and grabs her arm. "You and I are going to talk!"

"What? No! Can't you see I'm feeding-"

"We. Will. Talk!" Cue his rapid shaking of her arm, and the soup flying  _everywhere_.

Thankfully, napkins are quite handy in situations like this.

"Let me go, you stupid oversized-  _what the hell are you-!_ "

And so Weasley hauls her over his shoulder and marches away, with Pansy struggling and shrieking like a crazed banshee.

It's really quite entertaining, actually.

If one doesn't count the fact that people are now openly gawking at  _us._

But I'm not bothered by it, really. I mean, one  _does_ get used to often being the object of fascination and open ogling.

"Well," Granger comments, raising her brow, "that was quite a show."

I look at her, note the blush staining her cheeks. "Yes. It most certainly was."

She picks up her knife and starts cutting into her steak with too much unnecessary vehemence. "I mean, I go out on this dinner as a favor to Ron, and I end up up alone and humiliated by him. Who doesn't enjoy  _that?_ "

I have to chuckle at that. "Seems we're on the same boat, Granger."

And to both our eternal surprise, I stand and occupy the seat vacated by Weasley.

Granger gawks at me. "What are you  _doing?_ "

I arrange my coat. "Well, breathing, for one. Sitting, for another. Opening my mouth and talk-"

"I mean..." She indicates the chair I now sit on. "Why are you  _there_?"

"Because... I'm not over  _there_?"

She grips her knife, preparing to stab me with it.

I relax on my chair. "Personally, I do think it's a tad pathetic to be talking to you when we are on two different tables. I merely made things easier for us."

Granger snorts. Charming woman, really. "What makes you think  _I_ want to talk to  _you_?"

"Because... you  _are_?" I order another round of wine for both of us.

"If Ron comes back and sees you there-"

"Silly girl," I admonish, noting with interest the way the lights and shadows cast by the candlelight play on her face. "Do you honestly think they will be coming back for us?"

She opens her mouth, closes it, then draws her brows together. "He better. He  _will._ "

I grin. "You want to bet on that?"

Granger glares at me quite haughtily. "No. I know I'm right."

"For a supposedly smart witch you can be so stupid sometimes." I roll my eyes upon seeing her knife hovering inches from my throat. "I meant, with the way he carried her out like that Weasley probably has Pansy shackled somewhere right now. Imagine whips and chains and teddy bears and..." I clear my throat. "No, no, I'd rather not." Pause, shudder, vomit at the gruesome mental picture.

She frowns and drops her fork loudly on her plate. "Well.  _That_  thought certainly ruined my appetite. Honestly, Malfoy. I know of no other person more disturbed than you are."

"Why, Granger! I do believe that's the single most positive thing you've ever said to me. I am truly flattered."

What? I  _am!_

She shakes her head but I can tell that she's busy keeping a smile off her face.

I brush off the satisfied feeling fluttering in my stomach.

"I just have question, though," Granger mutters, sitting rigidly.

I raise my brow.

"Who's going to pay for this dinner?"

I blink. And blink again.

_Pansy you conniving gruesome ugly creature, you!_

I maintain my outward appearance of nonchalance. "Do not fret, I have everything covered."

Instantly, I get to my feet and walk towards her place. I offer my hand to her.

She looks at me, then at my hand.

"Take it," I say, smiling at her.

Granger frowns again, but grabs my hand.

I urge her to walk with me, keeping our pace unhurried. I nod and smile at the waiters, then at the guests, saluting and acting quite the polished, sophisticated gentleman that I am. At the door, I gently place my palm against the small of her back, and give her a tiny push.

"We're-"

"At the count of three."

"What? But we haven't-"

" _One._ "

"-paid for-"

" _Two_."

"-our-"

" _Three_."

_Pop!_

"-dinner!" Granger gasps, then looks around her in alarm.

Yes, we're back in our tiny flat.

Draco you conniving genius, you.

She hits me on the arm. Me! "Stop that! If you should know, I do bruise quite easily and-"

Unheeding my words, she hits me again. "I can't believe we just did that! We left! Without paying! That's just-"

I heave a sigh. And protect my arm from her incessant attacks. "Do you have money to pay for that dinner?"

Granger blinks. "Well, no... but I'm sure we could have-"

"What? Bruised my delicate hands through washing dishes? Wasted magic? No, thank you." I pause. "But you can go back there and work off our debt, if you want to. Don't let me stop you."

For a few seconds, she stands there, staring at me open-mouthed. I show her my perfect set of pearly whites, for good measure. Snapping her mouth shut, Granger pivots on her heel and marches up to her flat, closing her door with such vehemence that the whole place rattles for a moment.

I scratch my nape. Why is it that I feel as though I just did something that eternally damned me in her eyes?

Oh, right. Because I  _did._

Gritting my teeth, I use my wand to pop right into the restaurant.

"Mr. Malfoy!" The waiter who served us appears quite flustered and surprised. "I... I... we thought-"

"What? That I intentionally left my bill unpaid? That I intended to let the lot of you suffer by having your wages halved to pay for our dinner? That I disappeared with the thought that I will never, ever,  _ever_  set foot on this place again lest you remember that, once upon a time I had dinner in this restaurant and then vanished afterwards? The nerve of you people," I scoff. "How much is the dinner?"

The amount that appears on the paper nearly cause me to faint.

Scratch that; Malfoys do  _not_  faint.

They just... manfully lose consciousness in completely appropriate moments.

I settle the bill - totally against everything I have in me, by the way - and just as I was to leave a person bumps into me.

Typical that I'll be seeing the person who caused me to lose about a third of a quarter of a fifth of my inheritance.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I...  _Malfoy_?"

I smirk at Granger, noting that, again, she is staring at me open-mouthed. I can get used to  _this_ , you know. "If you're here to pay our bill... don't bother. I already did."

"But... but you... I thought..."

"Goodnight," I mutter, nodding at her, before pulling my second disappearing act for that evening.


	9. Chapter 9

_Write everyday no matter how or what you feel._

Which, as of this precise moment, is utter confusion.

"What?" says the person currently occupying my doorway. I detect a hint of defensiveness in that tone, but due to my complete bewilderment I do not jump at the opportunity to mock it. Which is a shame, really, since I always jump at the nearest opportunity to mock  _anyone_.

Except  _her_ , this time.

"What, in the name of all things evilly amusing, are  _you_ doing here?" I ask.

Granger shrugs lightly, pushes a stack of paper to my manly chest, and then proceeds to let herself in without my invitation. "I... came to give you your work for this week," she says, her voice low. "Yes, yes, that's it."

I look down at the papers in my hand. Runic symbols stare back at me, challenging my ingenuity and sheer translating prowess -  _solve me if you dare,_  they seem to say. However, I put them on the table beside the door, as I am more interested in solving this little riddle in front of me. "Why you?" I ask suspiciously. "Why not some nameless bespectacled freak I will forever refer to as Harry Potter?"

She shrugs again. "Harry was... occupied." I notice how she carefully avoids my penetrating gaze; instead she starts to pace in my uncomfortably small room.

I feel as though I ought to point out for the sake of some ignorant fool that this act is something only done by those who bear shameful feelings like guilt and remorse, so for  _Granger_  to do this  _here_ , in my godly presence...  _Interesting_.

And wickedly amusing, may I add.

"So I thought... I thought I'd be the one to bring them to you. They're urgent, by the way," she continues, gesturing absently towards the paper. "I need them as soon as possible."

Her explanation sounds right and fair to my unbiased ears, but still I get the feeling that she is not being completely truthful.

Yes, I know that I  _am_  quite a perceptive person. It's just another of my many,  _many_  positive attributes.

But I digress.

There is a reason behind my reaction to her unwanted presence in my flat, you see. Ever since that fateful night when I was forced to pay for some other pathetic peoples' food -  _damn it all to bloody hell_ , by the way - Granger has rarely allowed herself to be around my gracious, radiant presence. Not that I notice it or anything. I did  _not_  notice that she was absent the day Weasley and Pansy announced that they were shackled to each other once again, poor things. I did  _not_  notice that she was not there during the undescribably boring party that followed soon after. I do  _not_  notice that, lately, Granger's going to work unreasonably earlier than her usual time, which is 7, and going home outrageously later in the evening, around 10 or so.

No, I do not notice these things, for they are trivial and beneath my concerns.

It's not like I  _care_  or anything Gryffindoric like that.

"Also," she speaks again, looking at me in the eye this time, "I came because your most recent translation has been... shall we say,  _incomplete_."

Unholy indignation burns in me, hot and fiery.

" _Incomplete!_ " I gasp, incensed. "How dare you! I hand in my work to whoever nonentity you send here to get them, and I assure you, they are completely... complete! I do not appreciate you accusing me of submitting completely incomplete works! I am a  _Malfoy_ ; it is beneath us to hand in works that are not completely  _complete_!"

She spots something on my desk, examines it for a moment, then lifts it up. "Page five," she says succinctly. "Exactly the page missing from last week's report." A feral smile begins to spread on her face. "Care to explain this, then?"

Oh.

Heh.

Um...

"I do not know how that's still there," I answer, proudly lifting my chin up. "Potter must have been stupid enough to leave it behind. Yes. That's it." I laugh evilly. "You know Potter... all that spells from You-Know-Who must have emptied his already half-empty brain..."

We stare at each other for long, meaningful moments.

Shamefully enough, I am the first to look away.

"Fine," I say grudgingly. "Mugshots lied on that page, and being the smart, fiendishly fat cat that he is, I did not notice him doing so until  _you_ saw that page there. You know Mugshots, he loves to lie down  _anywhere_ as long as he is within  _my_ flat..."

Granger lifts a brow.

"Fine." Alarm bells sound in my head, brought about by the severity of her glare. And then... something just  _clicks._  "Or maybe... it was  _you_ ," I say in low voice. "You sneaked in here in the dead of night, you  _planted_ that page on my desk, and now you come in here all noble and mighty, accusing  _me_ of giving incomplete-"

" _Merlin!_ " she shrieks, waving the offending piece of paper. "Just say you forgot! How hard is that?"

"I  _didn't_!"

She taps her feet. Annoyingly. Incessantly.

" _Fine._  I  _may have_  forgotten it. In the recent events of me losing my manor and living here with you lot, I came to develop severe emotional trauma that causes me to become quite forgetful. All right? I forgot to hand in that paper to you  _because_  of you. Are you happy now?" I turn away, lest I see her gloating like a... like a person who's gotten the best out of a Malfoy.

But I do catch a glimpse of her,  _smiling_ there, like some, some– "-scheming, bushy-haired, little-"

_Pop!_

"Oh God,  _Harry!_ "

I look back and see Harry  _sodding_ Potter crouching on my floor, blood flowing from a severe-looking gash on his shoulder. Granger's already rushed to his side, taking out her wand. I do the same. "What happened to you?" I ask, my tone sharp. Seeing him, looking like this, reminds me of the many times during the Final War when he and Weasley and I...

Well.

Nasty memories, those.

Together, Granger and I bring him carefully to the sofa. Potter grunts as he leans back, still clutching his shoulder. "Spl-splinched," he rasps out, in between deep breaths. "Some... some bloke from..."

"Harry... shh," Granger mutters, glancing at me. I stare back, grim-faced. Nodding, she gently removes his hand from the wound, wincing slightly as she finds out how deep it is.

"I know some healing spells," I say, starting to make triangular motions with my wand. " _Remediu-_ "

"No, I'll do it," she says firmly, glaring at me again. "Harry, stay still. This might hurt a bit." And she starts chanting, her wand starts swishing, and soft blue and yellow lights start shooting from it.

I step away from them, restless and edgy all of a sudden. It has been quite a long time since one of us ended up like this, torn almost to the point of death. Ever since the fall of Voldemort, some semblance of peace and quiet has become the norm in this world. Now, though, with Potter bleeding all over my expensive furniture...

"Who did this to you?" I ask.

Potter shakes his head, grunting still from the mending of his wound. "Don't worry," he says, panting slightly. "The ba-bastard's already in Az-azkaban. Locked him up myself before I ca-came here.  _Bloody hell,_  Hermione-"

"Shh! I'm concentrating." Her hand shakes a bit, I notice, as she performs the more complicated mending skills. A part of me is surprised she still remembers some of the spells Pomfrey taught us years before; even  _I_  have difficulty recalling some, despite my vastly superior memory.

Then again, she  _is_  Hermione Granger. She probably remembers  _everything_  - alphabetically, chronologically, from least to most powerful..

"There," she says, standing. "All done."

"Th-thanks," Potter mutters, glancing at his shoulder and paling at the amount of blood he finds there. "I'm...  _oh_."

Grimacing, I quickly perform some cleaning spells to tidy him up. Attention-seeking hero that he is, Potter has never been that good around the sight of his own blood - which is saying something about how truly  _pathetic_  he is–

Potter chuckles slightly. "Sorry, Malfoy," he says. "I know what you're thinking. You think I'm dirtying your furniture. I'll... I'll clean this mess some... some time."

"Yes, whatever," I tell him. "Since you're already bleeding all over my place, then you might as well sleep there, for all I care. You  _bloody_ idiot."

And he laughs again.

"That's not funny, Malfoy," Granger scolds.

"Wasn't meant to be," I retort, glaring at her.

Meanwhile, Potter's eyes are slowly drifting close. His snores become more and more frequent and loud.

I cross my arms. "And of course, he takes my message literally and  _sleeps_  there. The idiot." I start to pace.

"My fault," Granger says, tucking her wand away. "I made him sleep. He looks so tired and worn out..."

"His room is across from mine," I snap. "It's not at the other end of the world, in case you didn't notice."

"So, what, you want to wake him up?" she scoffs. "Shake him and tell him, 'Oy, get up and go to your room'?"

"No!" I say loudly. "What do you take me for? He's bleeding and-"

Potter stirs but doesn't open his eyes.

"No, you know what? Don't answer that." I glance at Potter, then hastily avert my eyes. "The idiot. The bespectacled freak! This must be the latest mission he was telling me about. Trailing several wayward wizards without backup... no wonder even he, Harry I-sodding-got-a-hero-complex Potter, almost got killed!"

And as I collapse on the other chair, I spot a trail of blood on the floor and proceed to clean up after  _that_  too, muttering obscenities and about how stupid Potter really is.

Granger is standing so still that I look up at her, just to make sure she hasn't turned to stone yet. I mean, if  _that_  happens, then I will be forced to perform a very complicated spell which includes much touching and stroking and–

 _Huh._  On second thought–

She is staring at me so intently that I frown back at her.

"What?" I ask, a tad defensive. And a bit disappointed that she  _hasn't_  turned to stone.

"You," she breathes. "You surprise me, Malfoy."

"I  _what?_ "

But she seems to have waken from whatever trance she was in. "I'm... I have to go." And she bolts towards my door.

I grab her hand, though, and she looks up at me, her eyes wide and surprised.

"Tell Weasley about this," I advise. "He'll want to know."

Her brows furrow for a few seconds. Then, her hand comes up and frees the other from my grasp, before nodding and disappearing out my door.

* * *

 

"Bloody hell, mate," Weasley mutters almost in awe. "That's... that's just... I mean... who...  _wow_..."

"Wow?" Potter parrots. "What do you mean  _wow,_  Ron?"

"Good thing Granger still knows her spells," I tell him, just to save Weasley from having to explain his inane babbling. I look at Potter. "Otherwise, you'd be known as The-Boy-Who-Lived-to-be-The-Man-Who-Has-No-Right-Shoulder."

"Heh." Potter gingerly prods the said shoulder and flexes it. He grimaces. "Still hurts a bit, damnit."

"Serves you right, you know, for not calling us," Weasley says, scowling this time. "We could've helped you."

Potter shrugs. "I figured you two were busy. I thought-"

"Which, of course, proves what thinking is for you, Potter - a total waste of time and effort." Not for the first time that day, I call him, "You idiot."

He rolls his eyes. "What do you want me to do? I thought, hey, Ron's just gotten back with Parkinson, and you, Malfoy, were... were... huh."

Then he sits there with his beady little eyes boring into mine and his beady little glasses shining and-

"What?" I bellow, unable to decipher the sudden appearance of unholy gleam in those maltreated eyes.

A sort of deformed, frightening smile comes to his mouth just then. "When I came here... Hermione was also here, wasn't she?"

I glare at him. "I intensely dislike your tone, Potter. It suggests a wealth of meaning that I will purposely ignore for now, since you are injured and therefore defenseless."

"Blimey, Harry, now that you mentioned it..." Weasley starts nodding to himself. "I thought it was odd that Hermione knows  _you're_ here in Malfoy's flat. She wouldn't have known that unless someone else told her or... or she was also here when it happened."

I become frightened, for some reason.

I've always thought that something terrible will happen the day  _Weasley_ starts showing signs of intelligence.

"So why  _was_ she here?" he asks, becoming too eager for my comfort.

"She delivered my work, since Potter was too busy trying to get himself killed. Should've just told me you've got a death wish," I tell Potter disdainfully. "Would've made it a lot easier for you if I just killed you myself."

"Oh come off it," he says. "I'm alive, the bastard who did this is locked up - all in all, a good day, if I may say so myself."

"Yes, all in a day's work, isn't it, Super Potter?"

Weasley laughs unabashedly.

"Super Potter!" the bespectacled freak scoffs. "That's... that's actually... huh." He's nodding to himself now. "There's quite a ring to it..."

And suddenly he's wearing that deformed, completely frightening half-smile on his face again.

"All right then!" I say loudly, lest Potter decides to adopt the insult for himself, "since you're not dying anymore, and since  _you've_  been informed about Potter's recent stupidity, then I shall lead you both to the door and kick you two out. Now.  _Pronto_!"

"Err, Malfoy..."

"What?"

My eyes follow Weasley's oversized, pointed finger to the doorway...

... where Granger's currently at. Holding a plate of... something.

"How are you feeling, Harry?" she asks, glancing at me before walking in and depositing the plate before Potter. She places her palm on his forehead. "No fever or anything? It says on the book that fever might be the side effect of the spell I just used, and-"

"I'm fine, Hermione," Potter says, grabbing her hand and holding it tight. "Thanks."

I grit my teeth. "My room's over there, in case you two lovebirds would-"

Granger's cheeks redden.

Potter frowns. "What? What does that have to do with-"

"Mind if I get one?" Yet as he asked, Weasley's already got half of the bread inside his mouth and is reaching for a second roll.

Granger shoots to her feet. "A word if you may, Malfoy," she says in her strictest, bossiest tones.

Weasley and Potter share a look I intensely dislike.

I cross my arms. "Whatever word it is you wished to tell me, you may do so in the presence of these idiots."

Granger purses her lips.

Despite myself, I feel somewhat happy that I've caused her such annoyance.

Until, of course, she takes out her wand, grabs my arm, and,  _pop! -_

\- we end up in  _her_ flat.

Well, isn't  _she_  an aggressive one. If she wants me for my delicious body, then all she has to do is say it...

Being the gentleman that I am, I tell these to her face, and watch in sadistic glee as she turns redder.

"What?" I say, playing the innocent to perfection, "did I say something?"

"Shut up, Malfoy, just... shut  _up._ " Granger starts to pace in front of me again, and I begin to wonder, since the door's just right  _there_ , why I'm not letting myself out this instant.

I take action.

Until, of course, I hear her speak softly.

"I may... I may have been wrong about you."

Um, what?

"I beg your pardon?" I say stiffly, not liking the feeling that suffuses me in just that moment.

"I won't repeat it," she tells me, proudly lifting her chin, "since I very well know that you heard what I said."

Silence.

"Are we done?" I ask, impatient to get the hell out of-

"I've always wondered how you got Harry and Ron to treat you like a human being, since in all the years they've known you, you had been the vilest, most despicable, most annoying, egotistical-"

"I really do not need you spouting the least desirable adjectives you have for me," I say, gritting my teeth. The door beckons, so I-

"-and yet, after I returned, there you were. With them. In  _my_  place."

I stare at her, feeling as though I've just been bludgeoned in the head. "Do you mean to say that you've treated me like dirt ever since because you think I  _took_  your rightful place in the Golden Trio?"

"I'm not proud of it," she snaps. "You were there. I wasn't. I wasn't there because I was out ensuring my parents' safety, and  _you_ , you just-"

So. Pansy's right all along.

Granger's eyes flash heatedly. "I don't even know how you ended  _with_  us, anyway. The last I saw of you was you laughing with your fellow Death Eaters, and yet... what, did you just decide that our side was the winning one, and being the clever snake that you are you switched sides at the last moment?"

Something explodes in me. Is that how she views it? Is that what the rest of the wizarding world thinks about me?

I do not know why it suddenly becomes  _very_ important for me to enlighten her... and I decide to do just that.

"While you were out there securing your parents, Voldemort was busy torturing  _mine._ In front of my very eyes. Do you know how that's like? Hearing your quiet mother scream? Hearing your proud father beg? Hearing them plead to have me  _spared_?"

Her hands fly to her mouth.

"Being the sadistic bastard that he is, it took Voldemort  _days_  to have fun at my parents' expense. The day he decided to finally get rid of them... was the day I finally did what I think was right. What I  _should_ do to avenge their deaths."

"Malfoy-"

"You think I did that because I  _planned_  it? That I foresaw his defeat and switched sides to avoid the same thing from happening to me? No. Despite the obvious hints I'm  _not_  that smart. What I was, was someone bent to make the bastard who killed my parents pay. And  _we_ did. And if that makes me a bloody hero, then I just have to live with that."

Granger looks away.

Silence.

"Are we done?" I ask again.

"Harry and Ron... do  _they_  know?" she asks meekly.

I realize that I don't have any obligation to answer her.

And yet...

"They were the ones who apprehended me when I... offered my services to the Order. Of course they know."

Silence.

"Are we-"

"No! No, we're not done," Granger cuts in stubbornly. "I still have to-"

"Why the hell not?" I ask, annoyed. "I just redeemed myself in your eyes, right? I do not blame you if, after this, you shall fall irretrievably in love with me, all because I bared my soul to you."

This is a defense mechanism, you see. I allowed her to see my manly vulnerability, so in return I  _should_  annoy her to death.

It's only fair that way.

"Perhaps I shall take my leave, then, to let you gather your thoughts, and convince yourself that you do  _not_  love me when in fact you already do, and-"

"All right, fine! We're done! Get out get out  _get out_!" And she all but shoves me out her flat, and the door slams right in front of my face.

Heh. That is just–

The door flies open. "And for the record, I  _still_ think you're a bastard of the lowest order, even you did... bare your soul, or whatever." And the door closes loudly.

My. Isn't she just  _the_  most–

The door opens again, and time stands still. I look at her, and our eyes communicate, and she leaps to my arms and kisses me passionately and–

Ha! As  _if._

I stare at her closed door.

Then I smile to myself.

Then I begin to chuckle.

Then I burst with fiendish glee.

I think that this  _is_  the moment that will be forever known as the time Granger and I reluctantly become friends.

Ha! As  _if_.


	10. Chapter 10

_It doesn't matter if you're able to produce only ten, twenty or, two thousand words. Write._

-

Dear Journal,

Please stop prickling my conscience with your advice, as I have a very good reason why I'm not yet writing anything down.

And for the record, with this entry I have already written forty or so words, so, HA!

Love, Me.

-

Oh, yes, I'm sure many are aware that I have not been focusing too much on my writing these days. Which is frustrating, let me tell you. I know that I am depriving millions of people the chance to witness my ingenuity, but that is nothing compared to the consequences it has left  _me!_ The shame! The hurt! The emotional scarring in my poorly pure heart!

Truth is, my muse has disappeared indefinitely without giving me a bestselling novel. Consequence of this, of course, is that my being a published writer has become a farfetched - but still foreseeable and profitable - future.

And, of course, there are other, more  _painful_  reasons why I cannot write.

" _What?"_ seethes my gorgeous self. "I have to…  _what?"_

"Since the wedding is on again – as you very well know - I'm feeling a bit more generous these days. Thus, I present--" Pansy gestures towards a hideous-looking attire currently marring the perfection of my elegant sofa. "-- _Tada!_ " She runs her finger down the attire's hideous sleeve. "Your suit! I bought _and_ brought it just for you. Isn't that nice of me? Isn't that kind of me to do so? Doesn't that make me a saint of some kind?"

"You mean--"

Words fail me at this point, which happens almost, oh, next to  _never_. Not to a genius wordsmith such as I! "That's—"

Pansy bats her completely fake lashes at me. "Oh, do stop. I know you love the suit – why, I know I do! Ron picked it out for you, he did. And I approve. Wholeheartedly. Imagine hordes of girls swooning at your feet, Draco!  _This_  will just bring out the silver sparkle in your glorious eyes, and the platinum highlights in your golden tresses!"

Well of course I have hordes of girls swooning at my feet! Even without the suit,  _especially_ without the suit! But the suit?

It has to die. Preferably a slow, painful, horrible death.

 _Now_.

HA! I knew it! I knew it was too good to be true. Weasley has never really reconciled himself with the fact that I'm on the good side now, and he just  _pretended_ that he is friends with me, all the while plotting this ingenious scheme of me wearing an absolutely insipid, appalling,  _repulsive_ attire to his wedding! He's planning on humiliating me in front of everyone, as his revenge for my past sins… that, that pea-brained, harebrained, no-brained—

Pansy's better qualities are rubbing off on him, that's for bloody sure. Imagine, a  _Slytherin_ Weasley unleashed upon the world! The horror! Why, that's just as terrible as having a Gryffindor  _Malfoy_  out there in the open!

_Which I vow will never ever happen! My loins will never permit such a thing!_

"Let's just get one thing bloody certain, Parkinson—"

But Pansy shows almost no regard for the possibility of her excruciating, untimely death at the hands of a trusted person currently reaching for her spine.

"Oh, no need to thank me, you know. I  _love_  helping people—"

Imagine a  _human_ Pansy! The abomination!

"—like the way I  _love_  adopting stray puppies and kittens and doing good things, plus this is perfect, since in the wedding—"

"See here, Parkin—"

"—you and Granger are going to be walking together, so we thought—"

"WHAT?" All right, I know talking in caps lock is a major offense to all that is good and holy in literature, and that it is probably registered and licensed to be used only by  _Potter_  on random sporadic moments, namely when he is insanely angry or just plain insane and ugly – which is an everyday occurrence, but— "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?"

Pansy rolls her eyes. "We've already talked about this! You said yes!"

"I will  _only_  say yes to that if you were able to get me inebriated, tied to a chair, and cursed with _Imperio!_ "

More with the rolling of the eyes. "How  _else_  do you think I was able to get you to say yes you difficult bastard?"

Oh. Heh.

Indignation sparks an angry tinder in my tongue. "That does  _not_ count."

"It does, too!"

"Does not!"

"Does too!"

See, this is how you settle an adult argument – by using childish tactics.

"I'll tell Weasley you slept with Potter if you make me walk down the aisle wearing that, that abomination of a  _suit!_ And with Granger, of all people! If you think  _that's_  going to happen then you're high I tell you, HIGH!"

Pansy's face turns to an ugly shade of violet. "What the hell are you talking about? Potter and I? We never… wait a minute! Is this another product of your deluded mind? Are you  _actually_  writing about a sexual encounter between Potter and I, probably along a dank and dim-lighted alley? Are you… fantasizing something NC-17 actually happening between us, with him pushing me to a wall to have his dastardly way with me? Why you perverted—"

I cringe. "Mind my mind's virginal eye! Damn you for the thought, Parkinson!"

"And damn you for faulting my taste!  _What the hell is wrong with the suit_?"

I point at the offensive piece of hellish clothing. "For one thing, it's not something  _I_ chose! And, excuse me, what do you mean I need it to highlight my features? I do  _not_  need anything to highlight my beautiful features for I am already  _perfect!_ "

Take that, ugly person with absolutely no taste whatsoever!

"What about Granger, huh? What have you got against her? Excluding the blood oath you both took in order to kill each other, of course… I mean, didn't you two patch things up? Didn't you already frolic towards the warm sunshine of eternal friendship whilst holding hands?"

I stare at her. "You have no right to exhibit your lack of artistic license, Parkinson. Why, the words you just used to describe our current situation are abysmal, to say the least. This I know, because  _I'm_ a writer."

Silence.

Then Pansy sighs.

Which is  _not_ a good sign.

"I'm going to have to use my advantage against you, aren't I?" she says in her sinister, apocalyptic, nightmare-inducing – ergo, normal – voice.

 _Gasp!_  "You wouldn't."

But Pansy already has that evil glint in her eyes. "Who should know your dirty little secret first? Potter, who has numerous contacts on the newspapers? Granger, with her many acquaintances? Perhaps I should send a copy of your—"

"All right! All right, damn you!" This is beyond irritating. A person having an advantage over  _moi!_ Why, that has never happened before! I have never allowed any person who has an advantage over me actually  _live!_

But that was before I have found the error in my ways. I have forever closed that chapter in my heart, turned my back on evil, sought ways to redeem myself…

"You know, one of these days I  _will_ find something repulsive to use against you to ultimately ruin your life, you conniving little witch."

"Ha." She smiles, blows me a kiss. Which I promptly avoid. "Good luck with that."

I give her the finger.

She gasps. "Excuse me?"

I roll my eyes. "It's the wrong finger, Parkinson. I mean – just one."

"One…?"

"I will only give in to one of your ridiculous requests. So, either I wear that vomit-inducing suit, or I will walk down the aisle with Granger."

…not for  _that_ reason, thank you!

See, since this is a lose-lose situation, I may as well let Pansy choose one death instead of me experiencing both death sentences at the same freakin' time.

She frowns, and I strengthen my resolve. She breathes in, and I brace myself. She opens her mouth, and I prepare for battle.

There's no way I will do both things at once!

THERE'S!

NO!

WAY!

YOU HEAR ME!

"Fine." She smiles, mulls it over a little…

… then disappears with a loud SNAP.

Huh.

Well.

That went rather splendidly, if I may say so myself.

So, I guess I'm stuck with wearing the nightmare-giving suit, aren't I?  _Sigh._

Bright side: my inner glory will suffuse the clothes, enabling the people to see the beauty of  _me_ , and not the hideousness of the suit.

Yes, that's it. Nothing is ugly as long as it's on  _me_. Just look at Mugshots. He's not as repulsive as before, is he? That's because he has been exposed to me! Bearer of beauty, giver of grace, supplier of splendor… you know, the usual drivel.

Fine. Might as well fit the damned suit and see if there are any salvageable—

Hang on.

Pansy left the suit on my sofa, didn't she?

_Didn't she?_

But it's not there! It's not there at all! I checked! I checked everywhere!

A thought dawns upon me; nay, a possibility, grim and true.

_Does this mean…_

OH BLOODY HELL.

* * *

See, I have this brilliant idea. I will conspire with Granger to have  _both_  of us shoot down the idea of us actually walking down the aisle together. This way, Pansy and Weasley will actually have to reconsider and give in to our plan of, you know, not walking down the aisle together.

It's the  _perfect_ plan.

So, being the good person that I am, I walk to Granger's door. I thought about popping in uninvited but  _that_ may annoy her enough to reject my proposal. Shame, though. I mean the opportunity to pop in on her whilst unclothed…

Heh.

I was about to knock when her voice reaches my ears.

"You can't make me, Ron!"

Huh.

What the bloody hell is going on in there? Is Weasley… forcing himself… on…

"But, Hermione!" whines the bloody prat, "it's my wedding!"

Oh. No forcing of  _that_ kind, then.

"Then go be wed! I'll attend it, I'll walk if you want to, but not with…  _him!_ "

All right. I know that her attitude is already in accordance with my most perfect plan but FOR THE LOVE OF ALL GOOD THINGS WHY THE BLOODY HELL NOT?

"Why not?" Weasley echoes the G-rated version of my thoughts.

"Because…!"

"Because…?"

"Because I don't want to, okay? Let's leave it at that."

My curiosity peaked, I open the door, to their surprise. Granger turns an entertaining shade of red and opens her mouth to yell at me, but I beat her to it.

"May I remind you that  _I_ will be the most magnificent person in that wedding? You should be  _proud_ to have the opportunity to walk down the aisle with me, woman!"

Weasley nods profusely.

Granger points at me, looking at Weasley the entire time. "You see?  _This_ is why I don't want to!"

I laugh. "You're not making any sense, Granger. A fact that  _I_  already know, mind you. Let me tell you, I myself resent that Weasley and his dimwitted, soon-to-be bride actually thought of us… together!  _Together!_ An absurd idea, if I may say so myself!"

She smiles. An actual smile that made a vast difference to her face. And it's aimed at me!

Hmmm.

"There you go, Ron!" Granger says triumphantly. "Since we both refuse to do this then you better tell Pansy to think of someone else to pair us up with. I think anybody will suit just fine as long as it's not Malfoy."

All right. I know that her attitude is already in accordance with my most perfect plan but FOR THE LOVE OF ALL GOOD THINGS WHY THE BLOODY HELL NOT?  _WHY THE BLOODY HELL NOT_?

The thought of her… in someone else's arms…

"I changed my mind."

Two heads swivel to face me. "What?"

I give her my infamous smirk before telling Weasley, "I'll do what you want. Tell Pansy I'll walk with Granger."

She becomes entertainingly pale in the face. "… _what_?"

Weasley, on the other hand, smiles hugely, idiotically, his eyes sparkling like sapphires and an intention of hugging me visibly popping to his brain.

"No hugs! Just go!" I shriek.

In a manly manner, of course.

"What are you doing?" Granger shrieks, too. "I thought you don't want to do this? What's the purpose of all your ranting about not wanting me as your partner if you--"

I cross my arms. "The thought of me rejecting you is acceptable. The thought of  _you_ rejecting  _me_  is not. Henceforth you shall do as I say, and I say start picking up your dress!"

I turn away from Granger, just as she inhales deeply. I know that she is about to start her logical rant with a thesis statement and punctuate it with a logical conclusion, so I think about my options, which include shutting her up, hexing her, and bolting out the door.

Just then, I notice Weasley acting… strangely.

Giddily.

Like a person whose plan has successfully come to fruition.

_Like a genius who has lain out events and watched as they each came true._

Catching my eye, Weasley abruptly throws at me a huge grin with matching winks, before disappearing from view.

_Slytherin!_

A possibility dawns upon me. Was this… all of this… an elaborate plan, in itself?  _Weasley's_  plans all along? He foresaw my eventual turnaround and used the  _only_  means of actually achieving it…?

A shiver of fear runs delicately through my spine.

Dumbledore save us from intelligent, cunning Weasleys!


End file.
